


Assassin's Fate

by TurboNerd



Series: Cousland is Alive [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mild Smut, Zevran Perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-21 03:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11935074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurboNerd/pseuds/TurboNerd
Summary: With his bid accepted, Zevran would pursue the remaining Wardens, and then... whatever.Written from non-romanced Zevran's perspective.





	1. Chapter 1

With his bid accepted, Zevran would pursue the remaining Wardens, and then... whatever. 

Standing on the deck of a Ferelden-bound ship and looking upon moonlit waters, the city of Rialto, place of his birth, disappeared from the skyline. The assassin relaxed as well as any assassin could; with constant and keen attention on his surroundings.  _ Like a good assassin. _

They identified one Warden as a woman, and Zevran wondered what she was like. Dark hair, dark eyes, fair skin, average stature, one they called the last Cousland; their vague descriptions did not sate his curiosity, and nothing would give him more pleasure than the challenge of a powerful woman - at least, he imagined her as such, and hoped. 

Familiar pangs of anger, guilt, remorse and longing rolled through him as his gaze rested on a cliffside on the outskirts of Salle, taking it all in as if for the last time. 

How many women had he killed in his lifetime? Did it matter? He should have known better than to care, and Rinna should not have had to pay; could the Maker forgive him for that one as well?  _ Taliesen knew everything, that little shit.  _ If Taliesin had felt anything at all about the loss of her, he hadn’t let on. Then again, Zevran hadn’t much let on to his own emotions, either. Expression would have given way to vulnerability and possibly their demise. Ultimately, blaming Taliesen got him nowhere, as he hadn’t tried to spare her either.

Their perfect trio had died with her and remaining a duo would not serve them, despite Taliesin’s apparent desire. Without her, they were nothing more than a whore and a thug.

More than anything he wanted to hear her laugh at his jests just once more, to erase the sound of her pleading.  _ We needed her. _ With a deep breath Zevran closed his eyes, tilting his head to stretch his neck to distract from the the all-consuming ache; it did, and he felt nothing. 

If he killed this Warden Cousland and her comrades, it could be convincing enough a feat to make him Master... if he wanted to hold such a station. What  _ did _ he want?  _ I’ll think about it later.  _ He stretched his neck, rolled his shoulders, and the looming ache in his chest surrendered to habitual and impulsive self-soothing, leaving him empty. Leaning on the side of the ship, forearms rested on dampened wood, the sea air, fresh and crisp, sat thick in his lungs, frustrating his need for a deep, cleansing breath. 

Four days to muddy-fucking-Ferelden.  


 

*******  


 

The Warden responded to the most poorly executed cry for help with great enthusiasm; surely she had suspected their trap and braced for an ambush. Zevran had sent his worst, a mage with unrivaled skills in combat magics, but lacking in pretty much anything else. Upon returning to Zevran at a saunter - not the urgent run of someone in need of help -  the decoy gave him a nod and smile, perhaps for her own job well done. _ Idiot. Hilarious. Perfect.  _ He acknowledged her with a wry smile and looked toward his salvation; the fabled Grey Wardens. 

A potent moment, when the Warden met his eyes. This woman subtly cocked her head with brow furrowed, dark eyes staring at him with the compassion of beholding a lost child. Or had he imagined it? In any case, it was annoying.

She evaded his tree-trap, which gave a loud creak and several seconds warning; hopefully convincing enough for them to have no mercy. Perhaps he would at least have a little challenge.

“The Warden dies here.” He glowered, stalking toward her with weapons drawn. 

What happened after, Zevran could not say, as he woke with a pained groan, head throbbing and body sore, sitting uncomfortably against a tree with hands bound behind his back. 

He blinked slowly as she came into focus.  _ Ooh, pretty. Nice cheekbones. _ He had not expected to be fucking  _ spared.  _ Who spares the assassin? They captured  _ him  _ of all the assholes he dragged along. They could have interrogated anyone else just as thoroughly. They said nothing, apparently waiting for him to speak. 

“I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

This Warden-Cousland seemed very big from his vantage point on the ground. A noble, he would wager; hair in a tight, elegant bun, standing with squared shoulders, chin held high and hands clasped at her middle. Dark eyes surveyed Zevran for a few moments before crouching down in front of him with a soft and inquisitive stare. Apparently she wanted him to do  _ all _ the talking.

“My name is Zevran. Zev, to my friends.” Her gaze intensified with a nod, an invitation to continue. “I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at.” To his surprise, the Warden gave a subtle smile and spoke to him for the first time.

“I noticed,” she purred, shifting to sit on one leg and stretch out the other. Resting her chin on the heel of her hand, she kept her eyes on him. “Morrigan, heal him.”

A wash of healing went through him, telling him what a good working over he must have experienced given the stark relief from pain. Perhaps she intended to spare him. Why heal those to be killed?

“A rather generous offer, Warden.” Zevran moved his arms still tethered behind his back, wiggling his cold and numb fingers. 

“You were rather generous first, Zevran,” the Warden responded plainly, as if her reasoning should have been clear. “Do you know who sent you?”

“I see you know something of Crows.” Shifting for comfort, he folded his legs beneath himself and froze as a sword appeared at his neck. 

“Yes, I know something of Crows.” Her gaze fell on the sword wielding man, waving him away. “It’s all right, Alistair.” 

“It’s not, Nyla.” 

“His hands are bound. What’s he going to do? Headbutt me to death?” 

“He tried to kill us,” he replied in an incredulous tone, enunciating with overly expressive eyebrows.

“I noticed.” Nyla reached out to move the blade away from Zevran with a delicate nudge. “Go clean that thing. He won’t do anything.”

“I won’t?” Zevran spoke with playful inflections followed by a show of skill, the rope sliding from his wrists. With a satisfied sigh he rested his hands in his lap, flexing his fingers, massaging away the tingling ache. “Need to learn to tie people. Just because it is painfully tight doesn’t mean it is effective.” 

Alistair pointed his sword at Zevran’s face again, and responded to the Warden’s pointed glare with a single step back.

“Do you know who sent you, Zevran?” The Warden repeated her earlier question with equal patience.

Between the appropriate distrust of one and the abundance of trust from the other, Zevran did not understand what the fuck was going on. “A rather taciturn fellow in the capital-”

“Loghain.” Nyla snorted with a roll of her eyes. 

“Yes…” Zevran tilted his head at her and smirked, “Friend of yours?” 

“No, Zev,” the Warden spoke dismissively, her gaze flicking briefly toward Alistair and then back to him. 

“Are the Warden and I friends now?” He teased, taking a moment to pry his nervous attention from the dark eyes of the Warden and look around. 

Apart from Alistair, a scantily clad woman watched them with an impatient glare and a flame hovering above her hand, a disgruntled looking Qunari stood beside her. What had at first seemed to be cold and smooth calculation from them, began to seem a rag tag bunch of overworked people.

“I dunno.” Nyla’s simple response betrayed nothing of her intent, and Zevran guessed her to be genuinely unsure. 

“Are we going to sit and chat all day?” Morrigan’s impatient tone interrupted their pause and she stepped closer. “Just kill him and be done with it.”

“Morrigan, please,” Nyla spoke politely, holding a palm up. 

“For once, I agree with the witch.”

“Alistair, please.” Her raised hand faced Alistair, and her attention turned back to Zevran.

“Well, here’s the thing-” Even with his looming demise, the assassin wondered why her eyes were  _ always _ on his eyes when he spoke. Disarming, uncomfortably intimate, difficult to look away though he had a sense of wanting to; it may not have been as such if he knew its purpose. Perhaps she was trying to manipulate him, a fear tactic akin to the persistent stare of a master, only with excessive softness behind it. “I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works. If you don’t kill me the Crows will.”

Nyla’s lips pursed, brows lowered and scrunched together. “Rather extreme.” 

“I agree. Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause.”   
  
“Obvious how?” She tilted her head at him with a curious stare.

Too probing a question for Zevran, as he remembered how eager he had been to take the contract when no one else would. Other than that, he only had obvious answers.  _ Because everyone is fucking terrified of you?  _ Shaking his head with a dismissive gesture of his hand, he continued, “Let me serve you, instead.” 

She nibbled the inside of her upper lip, and Zevran felt the eerie sense of being transparent as her gaze flicked over him and back to his eyes. “So you would be protected from Crows, and we would have your expertise.”

“Yes,” Zevran responded with an emphatic nod. 

“My biggest concern is that you might finish the job later.” 

“Ah,” Zevran thought for a few moments, trying to explain himself without being uncomfortably revealing. This Warden seemed to put things in such a way that made him  _ want  _ to talk, and it fucked with him. “I am not inclined to continue to serve the Crows.” 

“You don’t  _ want  _ to be a Crow?” Nyla spoke as if genuinely surprised, and continued to unabashedly meet his eyes. He could  _ feel _ her curiosity, which wouldn’t have been so odd if they hadn’t just met. How disarming.  

“They purchased me as a child. Until now, no other choice has been presented to me.” He spoke it with as much depth as he felt it; none at all. 

“So…” she began, pausing for thought and a breath. “You never wanted to be a Crow?”

He was too tired for this shit, he thought with a shrug. “Being a Crow has its benefits, but it seems my death is inevitable if I return to them for failing the first time even if I succeeded in a second attempt.”

“It  _ seems  _ inevitable, or-”

“It  _ is  _ inevitable,” Zevran spoke with raised eyebrows, unsure if he hated or loved having someone examine his every fucking word. “Being allowed to live would be nice, and make me marginally more useful to you.” 

“Marginally,” she mimicked, pursing her lips; people were not supposed to point at his self-deprecating jokes while reading into them. “Do you believe they would come for you?”

“Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself as well as you. Not that you seem to need much help.” 

“Your earlier performance, Zevran, strategic and otherwise, does not reflect your offer,” she purred in her thick, Ferelden accent.

The assassin couldn’t help a chuckle and smile.  _ Would you just fucking end me already? _

Hard to bullshit your way into a better life arrangement when the person you dealt with paid far too close attention. Even if his ‘earlier performance’ had been so terribly unconvincing, he wasn’t about to tell the Warden he had  _ wanted _ to fail. He squirmed beneath her inquisitive stare. “I have many skills apart from fighting. Stealth. Picking locks. I could warn you should the Crows attempt something more sophisticated.” 

She spoke to him with more kindness than he felt he deserved. “It’s only fair, Zevran, that you know traveling with us would not be easier than being a Crow.” 

_ Oh, if she only knew... _ “I could stand around and look pretty, if you prefer.”

“There are darkspawn and the dangers of dealing with them.”

“Warm your bed.” Zevran heard an irritated  _ tsk  _ to his left; Alistair apparently had feelings about this particular offer, and the sound of tinkling laughter came from the Warden, followed by several undignified-yet-endearing snorts.

“No, I’m good,” the Warden spoke quickly, but with a good natured tone, resuming with seriousness. “The general populous of Ferelden is lead to believe Grey Wardens are the enemy, Zevran. Ferelden is against us as we are trying to save it from the Blight... I mean to say, this is going to be very fucking hard.” 

“I could fend off unwanted suitors. I’ll even shine armor.” He flashed her a smirk, tilting his head with a questioning hum. “You won’t find a better deal, I promise.”

She paused for a breath, a playful smirk and glare directed at him. “You  _ are _ hearing the stuff I’m saying, yes?” When Zevran nodded and repressed an even bigger smile, she replied with an elegant nod. “Very well. I accept your offer.” 

“What? We're taking the  _ assassin  _ with us now?” Went Alistair and his dancing eyebrows.

“Don't question me,” she spoke softly, but firm, a glimpse of frustration and exhaustion behind her eyes. 

She stood and extended a hand to Zevran, helping him to his feet with surprising strength for her somewhat diminutive size. This woman spared the assassin, accepted him under her lead despite objections from others she relied upon... Lucky for him, she was kind of stupid. 

“I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man without reservation… this I swear.” 

The Warden acknowledged him with a smile reaching a hand out to pat his back, which he dodged with a simple step aside; he didn’t recall saying it was alright to touch him. The Warden took his reaction in stride, her hands resting by her sides.

“Can you cook, Zev?”  


 

*******  


 

Hushed voices woke Zevran from his light sleep, his eyes flicking around the tent she had given him. The Warden assigned him his own personal space near the rest of them… so dumb. His new master was a generous one, telling him to _ rest  _ after brief introductions with her crew, an eclectic bunch with their own skills to offer. So many personalities, unlike the Crows. Not a lot of differences apparent between Crows unless one grew too close to another, and they all knew what happened if one grew too close to another.

“I can’t sleep with the assassin one tent over,” Alistair spoke in a hushed voice. “He shouldn’t be here. If he kills us in our sleep it  _ could  _ be a detriment to, I don’t know, the entire world.” 

If they were going to converse about him, perhaps they should have done it somewhere other than right outside of his fucking tent. Apart from having exceptional hearing, Zevran was literally right there with nothing but a thin layer of fabric between them. 

“I hear you.” Nyla spoke patiently. “He will be an asset to us, Alistair. Perhaps even a friend if we give him the chance.” 

Zevran could absolutely meet the criteria of  _ asset,  _ after all, he had always been one. But, a friend? This Warden moved fast. 

Stretching out his legs with hands clasped behind his head, Zevran listened with interest as they continued.

“Why are you so sure about him?” Alistair asked, surprising Zevran with his respectful tone. The Warden herself commanded respect, as nobility often did, and she had apparently built such a rapport with her handsome fellow Warden; that he would hear the Warden out when he disagreed with her so vehemently spoke highly of them.

“Did you listen to what he said?” Nyla chuckled, though it seemed her patience grew a little thin. “Did you hear him at all? Did you see him  _ at all?” _

“I heard and saw an assassin bargain for his life,” Alistair spoke with equal incredulity. “Nyla, he tried to  _ kill  _ us.” 

“I don’t think he did. He, ah...” Nyla’s voice trailed off for a moment. “It seemed he forfeited.”

“What does it matter if he forfeited?” Alistair’s voice remained calm, though it felt like a fight. “The  _ rest  _ of the Crows still tried to kill us.” 

“It matters. The ambush was obvious, poorly planned, the distress of the woman clearly false, and  _ really,  _ a tree?”

“That almost fell on you.”

“Hardly,” she chuckled. “Listen, he made an intentional blunder leaving himself vulnerable. So I booted him in the side of the head instead of killing him. ”

Alistair sputtered, “And… um, why exactly, would you do that?” He could practically hear Alistair’s eyebrows raise, and Zevran palmed his face; had he been so transparent, or did this woman simply notice every-fucking-thing?

“To question him.” Nyla spoke softly, and Zevran had almost a breath of relief from the simplicity and practicality of her answer. “When he woke, he said something. ‘I rather thought I’d wake up dead.’ He expected to die.”

“I thought he meant he thought he would lose against Grey Wardens. A safe assumption.” 

“Normally I might translate his words the same, but after his surrender…” her voice trailed off. “And then being alive makes him marginally more useful to us.”

“That was pretty funny. I like his humor, I have to admit.”

Zevran’s eyebrows lowered, and he smirked; were he around long enough, he wagered the handsome Warden would absolutely revoke that assessment. 

“Yes, that is a joke you might make. Albeit, not a very laughable one.” Nyla let out a groan consistent with a stretch. “Listen, I don’t mean to sound… crazy here. He seemed a bit...  _ off _ . His words having one meaning, his eyes speaking something else.”

“Mmm.  _ Yes _ , very deep. A cry for help masked as an ambush. Let’s be his friend.” Alistair’s legitimate frustration had begun to show. “Get to the part that makes all of this mean he should be part of our company.” 

“I’m curious. He may see himself as just a pretty, murdering, bed warmer, but there is far more to the boy. Crow or death are not the only two options. I want him to see that.” 

As if shaken awake, slapped in the face and then comforted, Zevran gasped, his head turning toward the sound of her voice. Lost, he could readily admit.  _ Boy? _ Maybe not so much. Perhaps she used the term loosely. Another word for male. More importantly, Zevran wondered what it was like to believe there was more to life than being a tool. 

“Nyla...” Alistair sighed with annoyance. “That is, a lot of profundity right there, and a lovely sentiment, but,  _ the world  _ could pay for this mistake.”

“He has  _ potential _ . How about you go on and tell me the goddamn difference between him and Sten? Or our lunatic, ginger bard? Just like with the others, I don’t intend to live completely unwary, but it still stands. If we must live in blighted fucking lands, let us at least embrace what’s left of humanity. Let me have my goddamn altruistic moments, or something.”

“That does help, you know. Hearing you’re at least wary.”

“Alistair.” She tsked in her annoyance. “I imagined you would infer it.”

“You charged him with cooking breakfast.” 

_ “No.”  _ Nyla laughed and snorted. “I asked him if he  _ could _ cook, not if he  _ would _ .” 

“Then why ask?”

"Because I love food?" 

All things considered, Zevran found Alistair to be the smart one. Then again, they would probably be without allies if she hadn’t been so willing to take these risks. Perhaps the Warden was the smart one. Then again, she invited the skeevy assassin. That just seemed extra dumb. 

Such was his luck; still alive, largely due to someone else’s stupidity. 

These people were... entertaining. He liked them so far, and might as well, being stuck with them and all. He especially liked Nyla’s mabari so aptly named Dog, and the small one, Sandal, their innocence a delight to witness. And the Warden, who unreasonably had his back, she was good. She had a lot of faith in him. Success had always been an outright demand with death as the price of failure. Zevran couldn’t recall a time someone had  _ faith  _ in him. 

He knew a word for this; when someone wanted to see you succeed, thrive, often intervening in some way to see it happen, but with kindness. Distinct from demands for success with death as the price of failure.  _ Intent? Good intent? Encouragement? _ He bit his lip, confused and frustrated with thoughts spinning, and something occurred to him. A breath of fresh air filled his lungs for the first time in so long;  _ care.  _ It seemed she cared, though he could never say this out loud with any surety. And she did such a thing so unabashedly, stood by it, defended it; brave little shit. 

He thought with a breathy chuckle through his nose, if anything, he should stick around to protect this soft creature from herself… not that he cared.

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

He woke with a startled breath, the events of the previous day hitting him with considerable weight. Away from Crows and Taliesen after so many years. _Rinna, what am I doing?_

Zevran wondered what to get into first, unsure of how they went about things in a Warden camp. With Crows, they would each feed themselves, lest they get poisoned by a comrade. He stepped out of his tent into the brisk morning air. _Wait, should I have a shirt on?_

“Morning, Zev,” Nyla spoke in her Ferelden, noble purr; her voice gravelly and soft. Elegant. She looked up at him from her seat by the firepit, chuckling with a smile. “You look like _that_ straight out of bed?”

“Paying me compliments, Warden?” He yawned and stretched, offering her an eyeful - and she actually took it, to his amusement. “I can think of worse fates than waking up to praise from a deadly sex goddess.”

She looked back at the pot and stirred, chuckling and snorting; Zevran wondered if she even noticed her own ridiculous laugh.

“Deadly sex goddess,” she repeated him through tapering giggles and then shook her head. “Have a seat? The others are… doing whatever they do in the morning. How does waking up to freedom feel?”

Nyla’s mabari sat tall behind her and watched the assassin sit next to her; Zev acknowledged Dog with a respectful nod.

“A poignant question, Warden.” Was he free? He wasn’t even sure if he knew _how_ to be free, or what he would do, were he left to his own devices. Zevran yawned again, running a hand through his hair; he had woken up to worse things than confusion, he supposed.

“Tea.” The Warden handed him a warm wooden mug. “Porridge is almost ready. Nothing special, but we do have a little sugar, if you would like. And my curiosity is still very much alive. How did waking up to freedom feel?”

“Zevran is thinking.” After a tentative sniff, he took a long draw of tea, feeling more alert as warmth spread through his chest. He found the question obnoxious, as if she had some expectation for him to feel something. As if it even mattered what he felt.

She tilted her head at him, staring with eyes of the deepest brown, he almost couldn’t distinguish the color from their centers. “That’s a lot of thought, Zev. Mad, sad, happy… afraid.”

“I have a question, Warden, if I may.” He kept his eyes on hers; eye contact. How novel. How fun. Her prying, however, remained annoying. “Does it matter?”

Nyla let out a thoughtful hum and sipped her tea, a pinky finger hovering as she held the mug’s wooden handle. “I would have difficulty identifying my feelings too if I believed they didn’t matter.”

“Well.” Zevran paused, leaning a little closer to her, smirking. “I focus on staying alive, and being charming.”

Nyla turned toward him, tilting her head and parting her lips as if to speak and then closing them again. Her brow furrowed and Zevran wished he could know everything happening behind her intense stare. “You seem considerably open to talking about feelings, for someone seemingly so cut off from them.”

Zevran chuckled with a wagging finger, entertained by this Warden who brought depth to idle chatter. “Talking about talking about feelings now.”

“You’ll get used to her.” Alistair sat next to the Warden with a sigh, resting a large hand on her back.

Zevran cocked his head, watching the tender gesture with keen interest. Not simply a tender gesture, he would wager. One of possessiveness, as another man staking his claim. The Warden seemed to enjoy his touch, all the same; a small smile, her shoulders relaxed.

“We’re going on our first adventure together, Zev. Our first adventure while on the same side, anyway.” Nyla giggled at her own jest. “It will be you and I, Alistair, and Morrigan. We’re just going to speak to someone… and take a boat. How do you feel about that?”

He didn’t fail to notice the mischievousness of her smile, but he wasn’t sure what it was about. “It feels exactly like the Warden is going to be a tad condescending and then drag Zevran around for an adventure. Or misadventure, as the case may be.”

After a bout of snorty giggles she asked, “And what does that feel like?”

He lowered an eyebrow and cocked his head. “Like I should, at the very least, put on a shirt and eat before it is time to go.”

“What does that feel like?”

“Like the Warden is fucking with me right now.”

“You’re not actually saying feelings, so who’s fucking with who?” She smirked, leaning toward him. “What does that feel like?”

“Entertaining.” He chuckled, backing away.

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Entertained?” _Fucking game._

She pointed at him. “And that?”

“Unsettled.” His cheeks heated, feeling as exposed as relieved in having all the shit narrowed down to something so simple and accurate.

“A feeling! You’re so patient. Leliana throws sticks at me to get me to stop.” Nyla grinned with a snorty giggle, her dark eyes soft and smiling at him, a subtle toss of her head in the direction of his tent. “Go put a shirt on.”

 _Fucking game._ Zevran returned her smile, shook his head and retreated to his tent. This woman seemed far too soft to have a blight on her shoulders. Unreasonably cheery and playful. Almost as if compensating for something.

 

*******

 

The Wardens made a point of walking ahead of everyone, for privacy, he presumed, as they continued their conversation.

“You’re still angry.” Nyla’s voice was soft, laced with patience and something unidentifiable to the assassin. “Do you need to talk about it again?”

“It’s still weird to be with you. I still can’t believe _you_ actually chose that.” Alistair’s hurt was clear, but he remained… soft. “I feel like I don’t even know you.”

Zevran assumed they must not be talking about him.

“What would you have me do, Alistair? Kill the boy instead?”

Or perhaps they were talking about him.

 _“No!_ Just… you didn’t even explore the options.”

 _“Oh ho!_ Didn’t I?” The Warden’s patience very suddenly wore out. “And I heard nothing from you as I made the choice. Maybe you should have shared your opinion right then, instead of leaving it to me and then resenting me for it?”

“I did say something.”

 _“After_ the choice had been made,” Nyla countered with a pointed finger. “You didn’t even help me explore options, and you have the gall to chastise me?”

“But you still made the choice.”

“Why is it we should spend _days_ trying to save one woman? Meanwhile, leaving Redcliffe at the mercy of that _thing,_ Alistair. Maker only knows what would have happened in our absence. Not just any woman, but the one who sent you to the Chantry in a fit of petty jealousy. Why do you even care?”

They stopped walking, Zev and Morrigan kept their distance. Their sharp voices, Zevran imagined, were only subtle in Morrigan’s ears.

“No, Nyla, that doesn’t mean I wanted her to _die_ , _”_ Alistair asserted in a harsh tone, his hands and eyebrows becoming more animated with his excitement. “What happens when the Arl wakes? She was his _wife.”_

Zevran glanced at Morrigan, watching the two with interest. The Warden’s eyes grew wide, and an angry flush crept across her cheeks.

“That has nothing to do with me. How _dare_ you judge me for making decisions when you won’t. Morrigan spoke up, and she agreed it to be the best course of action. I work with what I have. Your remorse is _unfortunate,_ and not my fucking fault.”

Zevran spoke, resting his hands on his hips. “Morrigan? Who is the Arl? What boy? What woman?”

“Is that what they’re fighting over?” With a deep sigh and a dismissive gesture she spoke, “That was yesterday.”

“It seems Alistair did not like her decision.” And it seemed this Morrigan enjoyed a good gossip.

“Well,” Morrigan stood closer to him, and Zevran got an eyeful of the side of her bosom; small, pert, easy on the eyes. Not bad. “She made the choice to allow a blood magic ritual to save a possessed child.”

“This… does not sound bad. Blood magic is simply more magic, no?”

Morrigan's approving nod made Zevran feel nice.

“It is. It seemed the most appropriate course of action to me, however, the price of blood magic can be quite high. It cost the boy’s mother’s life.”

“Mm.” Zevran shook his head, resting his hands on his hips. “That is going to kick the shit out of the boy as he gets older.”

“Indeed.” Her shoulder’s moved in a gesture of nonchalance. “But at least he gets to live.”

Nyla’s frantic whispers carried to him. “Is that why you’re letting me run this operation? So _you_ don’t fucking have to?”

Zevran pursed his lips and sighed. Fine time for a lovers’ quarrel. Was this his life now? “Alistair seems to be behaving like a self-righteous prick.”

“He has no qualms in doing so, as you will learn. Part of his templar training, I’m sure.”

“Nyla, I’m not _letting_ you run anything. They respect you, they defer to you of their own accord so don’t point fingers at me for not doing it.”

“Says the senior Warden in his own pathetic defense,” Nyla spat with an angry scowl. Alistair and his unrelenting eyebrows looked hurt, and the Warden bore the countenance of one who desperately wanted to backpedal; her gaze softened and her hands raised, palms facing outward. “I’m sorry. All I need is for you to tell me what you think when it matters, when it could make a difference. I can’t be alone in this. I know I will be held responsible for whatever goes wrong, I can accept that, but please… your resentment is painful. I need you. Don’t leave me alone in this.”

 _Wow._ It would be awkward to be on the receiving end of such heavy-handed sentiment, given Zevran felt it on Alistair’s behalf. And how heavy being the Warden must be, for her to be willing to plead for her allies to remain allies. Time for some levity.

“We may be a while here, Morrigan.” Zevran purred, smirking at her, trying to distract himself from more of their painful and private conversation. “I see a clearing behind the brush-”

“We just met.” She looked at him as if he had fed her something sour.

“Better to go for it now before we realize how abhorrent each other are, no?”

“Too late for that,” she scoffed, and Zevran couldn’t help a chuckle. _Feisty._ “So, assassin, what is going to keep you from poisoning your target now that you have been allowed to accompany us, I wonder?”

“You are!” He smirked with a nod, delighting in that she would come back with something so underhanded. “You will be watching me ever so closely to make sure I attempt no such thing.”

“And why would I do such a thing?” She spoke haughtily with a cool gaze. “Sneaking into our good graces in order to make another attempt is what I would do, were I you.”

He could feel the threat behind her tone, and it struck him as… familiar. “And here I was becoming rather fond of the idea of you watching me closely.”

“It would be a simple enough matter to poison the food in camp. Or cut our throats while we sleep.”

He couldn’t help a small chuckle, “You seem rather charmed by the idea.”

Did she know how easy it would be for him to simply reach out and snap her neck? The Warden often fought with arms held too high; he could have her down in fifteen seconds with a blade between the ribs, followed by Alistair, a slash to his soft, exposed neck. There would be no need to wait for them to be vulnerable; they already were, and Zevran did not favor being pressed.

Morrigan met his cold smile with her own. “It would seem an appropriate result of sparing _your_ life.”

He couldn’t argue that one. This bitch was fun.

“So sorry to disappoint you, Morrigan. Next time I am spared, I will be sure to immediately turn on my benefactors. Will that do?”

The witch had no response, only turned her gaze toward Alistair and the Warden. Alistair’s arms were around Nyla, hers wrapped around his waist.

“Look at that.” Zevran abandoned the tension with practiced ease, chuckling with a mock, dreamy sigh. “How nice.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes and called out, “May we move on now, or does Alistair need more coddling?”

“I imagine it is more for her,” Zevran spoke, unsurprised and unphased by the witch’s bitterness.

“I know, assassin.” Morrigan walked forward glaring back at him, “‘Tis not my intent to stand around all day and watch people _hug,_ whatever their reasons.”

“Zevran does not mind.” He followed close behind her. “Let them have their moment.”

“Do we look like we have _time_ for their moment?” Morrigan spoke with distaste. It seemed she found everything largely distasteful; Zevran could see this as part of her charm.

“Yes. Though, perhaps the moment is less fun in full plate armor. He should disrobe for more effective hugging. Perhaps she should too.”

Alistair and the Warden let go of each other, his gloved hand raising to brush her cheek; such softness in their gazes. Their ‘togetherness’ felt much like a looming disaster, however, outside of Zevran’s own life, people didn’t die by simply liking each other... or so he had been told. They continued walking, seeming to have forgotten about those following them.

“I assure you,” Morrigan muttered. “I don’t want to imagine either of them hugging. Or nude, for that matter.”

“But you are,” Zevran purred, and she narrowed her eyes at him, her lips quivering with suppressed smile; she would be _fun_ to torment.

“Alright?” Nyla slowed looking back toward them, Alistair matching her pace.

“Si, Warden! Morrigan was just speaking of nude hugging. So inappropriate, given the context.” He chuckled at Morrigan’s disgusted _tsk_ while turning his gaze toward her. “Sorry, was this a private conversation?”

 

*******

 

The Warden strode into Kinloch Hold ready for business with her head held high only to be met with chaos. Several templars refused to go in, but the Warden, of course, didn’t hesitate. Perhaps it was curiosity. Bravado. Coin. Atonement for killing the boy’s mother.

Disaster, it seemed, preceded the Warden, as they walked through the detritus of the tower. _Rite of annulment._ Zevran rolled his eyes. As if there was anything left to annul. They stepped over and around scattered mage corpses to find a few survivors, including children.

“You want us to assist this preachy schoolmistress?” Morrigan spoke with her usual disgust; her offered opinions did not seem to be landing as favorably as it previously had.

Nyla looked at the witch as if she had several heads. “Yes.”

“To rescue these pathetic excuses for mages?”

“Yes.” The Warden repeated.

“They allow themselves to be corralled like mindless cattle.” Morrigan paced while delivering her enlightened speech, and Zevran watched the side of her bosom to pass the time. “Now their masters have chosen death for them and I say let them have it.”

“Wynne will come with us.” Nyla smirked at the witch’s apprehensive stare. Most of the time the two women did not like each other. _Fun._ “Morrigan will stay here and look after the children. Make sure the corralled mages stay safe.” She enunciated her statement with a casual nod and a wink.

“Have it your way,” Morrigan scoffed with a dismissive gesture, while Zevran withheld a chuckle, taking a moment to welcome Wynne to their party.

“Do not fear, my good lady. Our Grey Warden is very good at fending off attackers. Speaking from experience here.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Zevran.” Nyla sighed, stepping through the lowered barrier with her stern gaze pointed forward.

There didn’t seem to be much happening on the other side. Eerie silence broken by their echoing footfalls, and the not-so-subtle sounds of Alistair’s chainmail; this man would not be good company for stealth missions.

“What the-” Zevran furrowed his brow and recoiled as a _thing_ charged them. “Uh oh.”

Nyla drew her weapons. “Back away when it falls.”

Alistair charged, and the beast rebounded off of his shield responding with claws and an otherworldly shriek, making Zevran cringe and want to cover his ears. The assassin wondered how one even killed such a thing, and surveyed for parts that may have been considered vulnerable.

The Warden appeared behind the monster, slicing and stabbing until it slumped over, and they backed away. Mind whirling in confusion and... perhaps a little horror, Zevran moved a little closer, just to see it. _What the absolute Maker-loving fuck is this?_

“No,” Nyla commanded, grabbing the back of his collar with a firm tug which made the assassin stumble backward and land on his ass.

The corpse burst into a cloud of flame which would have hurt him and singed his hair had he not been flung by the Warden. Zevran stared with wide eyes at the charred space where there had been a monster’s carcass; that whole ‘back away when it falls’ thing suddenly made sense.

“You get it now?” She extended her hand to him with a smile. Pulling him up, her dark eyes scanned him. “You hurt?”

He chuckled breathlessly, palming his face. “What the fuck was that?”

“An abomination.” She spoke with an even tone while meeting his eyes. “Terrifying, yes? You’ll see worse. You alright?” She patted his shoulder, and though it felt grounding, he waved her hand away.

“Of course. What of the mages? The abominations killed them?”

“I _think_ it was a mage, before it became that. I did a bit of reading, you see… actually, talk later. I need to talk to Wynne for a moment.”

 _These used to be mages?_ Zevran reeled at the prospect with a keen sense of horror.

“Are you proficient at combat magic?” Nyla stood close to the elder mage, speaking with a stern and somewhat condescending tone. “You struck Alistair with your ice.”

He wondered if he should tell her he could hear her private conversations loud and clear when she did not intend him to. Maybe later.

“I have to admit, I am getting used to…” her voice trailed off. “Getting used to fighting with a group. I will heal him if he gets hurt.”

Nyla looked at Wynne with so much calculation, as if searching for some truth outside of her grasp; it had Zevran look at the mage sideways, as well.

“Be sure, or stop fighting. You can stand back and watch over us, but do not risk injury because you can fix it.” Nyla nodded after a long pause. “Any questions? Do we understand each other?”

“I understand.” Wynne nodded graciously. “I will do better.”

Nyla returned the gracious nod with her own. “Thank you, Wynne.”

The Warden moved on, and they followed. This was why she led; because she could. She paid attention to everything. She took the reins and knew what to do with them. The Warden had witnessed Zevran’s distress and had respected him… an interesting way to go about things; certainly more pleasant than what he was accustomed, for sure.

The sheer number of demons was unsettling, even as killing them became easier. Working as a team, coordinating came naturally. Alistair took their blows; large and imposing, loud, he glowed sometimes with his own templar magic. Zevran learned to assist in such a way; attacking the Warden’s target and fending off what blows may come toward her.

 _“Scatter!”_ Nyla shouted, and they did, evading the explosion of a fallen abomination.

The Warden had been right, shit did get worse. Downright disturbing; a tranquil mage, and other mages who attacked on sight. Chaos, followed by more; it seemed blood magic was not _just_ another form of magic. What the fuck would cause flesh to grow on walls? _Disgusting._

Nyla spoke her thoughts as if she could read his own. “I think I understand now why blood magic is forbidden.”

“Yes!” Alistair spoke incredulously. His arms extended with palms up, he continued with excessive snark. _“Now_ she gets it! Thank the Maker.”

“Well…” Nyla began softly, “If I weren’t so busy being disgusted by my own behavior, I’d have a clever rebuttal.”

 _Wow,_ clever rebuttal indeed. The Warden certainly had no qualms with accepting she had made a mistake. Alistair didn’t have to kick her while she was down. _Prick._ _  
_

With pursed lips and downcast eyes, Nyla turned from him to move forward. Alistair took her gloved hand in his, and she looked at him with wide eyes, as if surprised by such a gesture. A few moments of unspoken communication between them; their hands parted, and they walked taller together.

_“What have you learned, my son?”_

_“Mother has me practicing my penmanship…”_

Zevran’s ears perked up at distant voices he could barely hear beyond the clink of Alistair’s armor. “You hear this?”

_“Mother is teaching me how to play the harp! And I helped with supper.”_

“No, Zev.” Nyla whispered, stopping to look at him. “What do you hear?”

_“Isn’t this wonderful, husband? Isn’t our life perfect?”_

_“Yes, it is all perfect.”_

Zevran whispered, “Up ahead. Voices. Sounds wrong. Unnatural. I would recommend stealth, however, Alistair preternaturally jingles.”

Alistair nodded his agreement, his armor shifting with several clinks, followed by their stifled chuckles.

“Well. We’re not splitting up.” Nyla thought for a few moments and gestured with an elegantly extended arm for Zevran to lead them. “Fuck it. Let’s go kill the sound before it kills us.”

A good a choice as any. They walked on to the incessant jingling of armor, and they stopped at the entryway of a large room. A chapel, perhaps, embellished with the same disturbing viscera as the rest of the Hold.

“What is the pink woman doing?” Zevran spoke softly, quirking an eyebrow.

“Purple,” Alistair whispered.

Zevran stared at him and nodded, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips. _Oh, is that how it is, Alistair?_

“Both.” Nyla whispered. “Desire demon. The templar does not understand what is real.”

_“Everything is just as you wanted, my knight. Our love and our family is more than you hoped for.”_

This seemed to ignite Nyla’s temper to such a degree, and she strode in with weapons drawn and a flush of anger on her cheeks. “Unhand him, foul demon!”

Zevran followed the Warden with a jovial cackle. Yes, _that_ was the type of shit heroes said. Heroic Warden looked exceptionally lovely while doing heroic things. Fierce.

 _“There are bandits at the door! They are going to murder the children!”_ The pink and purple demon cried out.

“They will not get past me!” The templar charged Nyla, and Alistair rushed past her with a feral cry, bashing him with his shield.

Were they about to kill a man who believed he needed to kill to save his family? How disturbing.

Zevran rushed the demon, her ample bosom remained unnaturally still, her claws coming for his face easily deflected. And then, fucking skeletons. Chaos and more chaos. How did one kill a skeleton? The most sensible way seemed to behead them. _Where is the Warden?_ He had suddenly lost her from his periphery. Her voice caught his attention, chilling him to the bone.

“Don’t harm the children,” Nyla commanded, right before cutting the templar’s throat. A beautiful thing to say to a man who believed he fought for the lives of his family; perhaps it brought him a little peace in his final moments. Perhaps not. Either way, Zevran appreciated the sentiment on the dead templar’s behalf; at the very least, the templar got to meet the Maker knowing he defended those he loved. That was good.

Too many skeletons. Some frozen in place, blasted away by Wynne, surrounding Alistair, surrounding _her,_ and Zevran had an almost-nude, pink demon rearing back with open arms to cast magic on him. _Stupid demon._ Her flesh was as vulnerable and soft as any other, and she flopped to the ground; her bosom hadn’t budged the entire time. Zevran beheaded a skeleton, Wynne froze the other, Nyla cut its head off, it hit the ground… skeletons gone. Silence, accompanied by the sounds of their heavy breathing.

“Did you _see_ this demon’s perturbing bosom?” Zevran panted, pointing to where the demon’s corpse had been. “It is gone now, which does not surprise me, but bosoms are supposed to jiggle, waver, heave, bounce...”

Nyla headed for the door with a snort, and they all followed her.

“Alistair?”

“No comment,” Alistair responded abruptly.

Zevran tilted his head and his brows knitted together. “You were not at all perturbed by the motionless bosom?”

“I wasn’t looking at her…” Alistair reached up to gesture in front of his chest, but only made it halfway there before thinking better of it. He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t looking.”

Zevran didn’t believe that shit for a moment. “How could you miss them? They were everywhere. Wynne-”

“My focus was elsewhere, young man.”

“Warden-”

“Oh, I noticed. I found it enviable.” Nyla sheathed her daggers and stretched her neck, rolling her right shoulder.

 _“Enviable?”_ Zevran raised both hands with palms facing outward, fingers curled in as if grabbing something. “Could you imagine-”

“Yes. Imagine the relief of having breasts that just don’t move? Do you know how uncomfortable a breast band is? And beneath all this leather. If I could just scratch my own fucking back my stress levels would plummet.”

“I will scratch yours if you will scratch mine,” Zevran teased, skipping close behind her and hitting her back gently with his fists in a steady rhythm.

“Maker’s breaaath...” Her voice wavered with impact, and her shoulders slumped. He stopped so she could push a big door open. “There go my stress lev- and they're back.”

“Oh look, visitors. I’d entertain you but too much effort involved,” a voice boomed from the center of the room.

Just when Zevran thought shit couldn’t get any creepier, there it was. Giant demon with… skin across its mouth. _What the fuck._ How had he gone his entire adventurous lifetime without encountering anything like this?

“Good, that will make you that much easier to kill.” Nyla, while maintaining her cavalier demeanor, spoke through a stifled yawn. Her arms raised to draw weapons just to flop back to her sides. _“Fuck.”_

The monster continued in its deep drawl, “But why? Aren’t you tired of all the violence in this world? I know I am. Wouldn’t you like to just lay down and forget about all this? Leave it all behind.”

Leave it all behind? But they were busy. They had to do something… probably important. Then again, was there something _wrong_ with a little nap? Slave drivers, just like his former masters; no rest for the wicked. Nyla caught Zevran’s watery gaze, and she shook her head hard with a deep breath.

Zevran blinked rapidly, steeling his resolve, eyes on the wavering Warden’s back. “What is this? Some ridiculous ploy to get me to let down my guard?” _Because it is kind of working._

Alistair fell to his knees, “Can’t keep eyes open. Someone pinch me.”

“You must resist! Or we are lost.” Wynne crouched down and rested her hands on her knees.

“Why do you fight? You deserve more. You deserve a rest. The world will go on without you,” the monster crooned, and his comrades collapsed to the ground.

Zevran was no stranger to exhaustion or fighting sleep. Dragging himself to his hands and knees, he went toward her. _Wake up, Warden._ Zevran felt himself in a losing battle. _Wake up, Warden…_

Unsheathing his weapons, they slipped from his feeble grasp and clattered to the ground. _Fuck._ He had made an agreement to protect the Warden, and he would be damned if he would let someone harm her in her sleep. Zevran shook his head, attempted to slap himself and his arm flopped uselessly through the air. _Fuck._ A last ditch effort, kneeling beside her with a dagger in his fist before he succumbed to sleep.

 

_“I think I saw him flinch that time.”_

Do not flinch, Zevran. It is only pain. Pain is temporary. It will pass.

_“We’ll make you scream yet, apprentice,” the other snarled, giving the rack another turn._

Deep, even breaths. _Joints ached and burned, and he gasped._ Pain is not forever. I will be a Crow.

_“We’re not going to go easy on you, trust me.”_

Deep, even breaths. _Sweat dripped down his temples and his heart beat hard. “No,” he strained to speak through the unnatural stretching of his chest. “I wouldn’t want you to hold back.” He forced a breathless chuckle. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”_ Fuck you, I will be a Crow.

_“This one has spirit. It’s a shame we have to break him.”_

Good luck fucking trying. _He breathed deeply, concentrating, closing his eyes._ Pain is only temporary. It will pass. I will be a Crow.

_“Let him go!”_

_Shit, someone pissed off the Warden…_

_“What?” Zevran opened his eyes, groaning as they turned the rack, the burning and aching intensified._ Breathe. _Dark eyes met his as she strode closer; pissed off Warden confirmed. “Warden?”_ Deep breaths, concentrate. I will pass this trial. Go away, Warden. I will be a Crow. _“You’re not supposed to be here.” Pain is only temporary._

_“This is only a dream, Zevran.” She spoke softly, drawing her weapons. “We’re in the Fade.”_

_Was this a part of his trial? “No. I need to stay strong. This is my test.”_ Don’t flinch, don’t scream. Breathe. Pain is only temporary. _“I am going to be a Crow.”_

_“You’re already a Crow, my friend, and these are demons.”_

_“Is this just a bad dream?” Zevran’s face contorted with pain and a spark of anger, looking up at the familiar faces of his tormentors. “A bad memory?”_

_“Oh, I think he’s questioning us. That’s a very very bad thing to do. Isn’t it?”_

_“Yes it is. He will be punished for that. Severely punished.”_

_Before Zevran could brace himself for the pain, Warden charged the Crow nearest her, their weapons meeting with the scrape and clatter of metal on metal._

_The Warden fought for him. He couldn’t think of anything he had done in his lifetime to deserve this from the Warden; not that he had much room to think with limbs creaking under the pressure of a rack._ Zevran gets to live in dreams, and this is what he comes up with? What the fuck? _If the Warden hadn’t come for him, would he have spent an eternity believing he was in the midst of this trial?_

_“Zev.” Nyla loosened the rack, and he breathed a full breath with a relieved groan. As she untied his legs, she babbled. “It’s so fucking confusing to do anything in a realm that isn’t real. Am I really untying you right now? It’s your dream. Shouldn’t you just be able to will the ropes away? Or the entire rack, for that matter? Or is it so real to you it’s also my problem because I just happen to be near it? Can you get up?”_

_“Yes, Warden.” Zevran sat up with a groan and dragged himself to standing. He stretched with a satisfied sigh. “Well, that was bracing. There’s nothing like a good racking, is there?”_

_“I um… have never been racked.” She cocked her head and spoke as if he didn’t know - which he kind of didn’t, “Being racked is abnormal, Zevran. You hurting?”_

_“No-” Zevran began, distraught by the translucent fire consuming her. Would all the weird shit slow down for just a fucking moment so he could get his bearings? “What are you doing?”_

_“Disappearing in a puff of wavering mist?” She chuckled, wiggling her gloved fingers at him. “Bye, Zev.”_

_“Where are you going?”_

_She shrugged. “No fucking idea.”_

 

“Then why leave?” He quirked an eyebrow at… the Warden again as he reappeared somewhere else entirely, accompanied by Alistair and Wynne. “How did I get here?” Zevran asked with a stabilizing sigh. “What happened to all those luscious wood nymphs?” He pursed his lips to withhold a smile when the Warden’s heroic face contorted with brief laughter before resuming her stern gaze.

“You will not hold us demon. We found each other in this place, and you cannot stand against us!”

 _Feisty Wynne! Yes!_ She had to be his most favorite old woman of all time. Reminded him of the Warden with her penchant for being so cavalier. _I hope we get to keep her!_

“Yes!” Nyla gestured with wide open arms. “Fucking finally. All in the same, wrong place. Do you all know what I’ve fucking been through… fucking forget it.”

Zevran grinned at his Warden, who seemed to be losing it.

“If you go back quietly, I’ll do better this time. I’ll make you much happier.” Why these demons still believed the Warden would suffer them Zevran would never know.

Nyla stood tall and asserted, “I want to be free.”

Zevran couldn’t get enough of heroic Warden saying heroic shit, and he could get used to serving a master actually worthy of his services.

“I made you happy and safe. I gave you peace. I did my best for you, and you say you want to leave? Can’t you think about someone other than yourself? I’m hurt.” This demon wasn’t at all providing a convincing argument. Think about someone other than himself? Never.

Nyla drew her weapons, and their comrades followed suit.

“You wish to battle me?” The monster took his stance. “So be it. You will learn to bow to your betters, mortal.”

The fight wasn’t easy. A test of stamina, which he somehow found himself getting _tired,_ while sleeping and trapped in the Fade. He had plenty of time to wonder what happened when one died in the Fade. Perhaps they simply woke, or didn’t wake, trapped in this Fade place forever. One thing Zevran knew for certain; he wasn't about to find out. When the ogre fell and became some other demon, it flung them all violently, putting Wynne’s healing magics to the test. Yes, they actually needed to keep her.

Each incarnation of the beast looked like others they had seen before, only stronger, and as the last of the beasts fell, Zevran woke with startled breath, still sitting on his knees next to the Warden, weapon in hand. He looked down at her sleeping form. “Warden?”

“Zev,” Alistair groaned to standing, and then strode to them with very angry eyebrows. “Why isn’t she awake?”

Surely Alistair didn’t still believe Zevran wanted to kill her; the assassin rolled his eyes. “Still in the Fade, perhaps?”

Alistair turned Nyla onto her back with the gentleness one would treat a child. Something in the man’s tone spoke of urgency, and… something else. Desperation?

“Nyla,” Alistair took off a glove to press his fingers to her neck and gently stroke her cheek. “Come on, wake up.”

“I suppose she’s still back there.” Wynne knelt by her. “Perhaps she had unfinished business.”

Zevran bit his lip and sighed. “Sing songs while we wait?”

They sat around her in silence, looking down on her unmoving form. Lovely, even as she slept, and strange how Zevran felt her absence so keenly. Alistair palmed his face, no doubt wondering what he would do without her; the poor fool. All things considered, they did need her.

“Shit.” The Warden groaned as she sat up, and her head whipped around as if seeking something. “Niall,” she crooned, moving to sit up on her knees and smooth her hair with gloved hands. “He has the Litany of Andralla. We need it to-” she stood up and elongated her body for a stretch. “Stop Uldred.”

“Warden still has more to do?” Zevran stood with her.

“There’s always something more.” Nyla shrugged, retrieving a parchment from Niall’s grasp. She continued with a yawn and sleepy undertones, “Nothing to do but fight like the world depends on it.” She unrolled the parchment and continued absently, “Which it does.”

 

*******

 

Never had Zevran seen such a tormented soul. Trapped behind his humming barrier, praying, pleading for death, he would not be soothed, only insisted on the death of the mages.

“Calm down, you’re safe now.” Nyla addressed the templar, pressing a tentative palm against the cage surrounding him. “Where are the other survivors?”

“You have to end it now, before it’s too late!” The templar asserted, and Zevran wondered exactly how it didn’t seem to be already too late; too late happened when the blood magic started. It was not, however, too late to make the best of what they were left with.

The templar continued his rant. “To ensure this horror is ended, to guarantee that no abominations or blood mages live, you must kill everyone up there.”

The Warden’s shoulders slumped with a tired sigh, her palm still against the barrier as leverage for her lean. She couldn’t be considering this. Zevran expected more of her, _better_ of her. Heroes didn’t abandon the innocent. There were _children_ below! He had to say something before she made another regrettable decision. He approached her the way he imagined would be most effective; stern, straightforward.

“Warden, I am hardly the person to lecture on the worthier points of human nature, but surely this is a fine time to display the oft-lauded virtue known as mercy? Are you so quick to condemn these mages? I deserved to die, and you spared me.”

Nyla looked back at Zev with her sad, tired gaze and smiled, betraying nothing of whether or not she had taken him seriously. “You’re a lot prettier than most mages.”

“Flattery would normally distract me, Warden, but not today. I’ve taken the lives of many throughout my career, but this is no measured act. There is no chase, no hunt, no dignity in this… there is only slaughter.”

“I’m afraid for the many that may be slaughtered by sparing them.” Turning to face Zevran, she continued softly, “Just look at what’s left of this man.”

“Warden…” Zevran spoke urgently, one last attempt to sway her, to help her choose, he fed the Warden her own words. “If we must live in blighted fucking lands, let us at least embrace what’s left of humanity.”

She finally met his eyes, emotion flicked over her gaze. He could feel her again as she stood tall once more. “We save the mages.”

 _Thank the fucking maker._ He had almost lost respect for her.


	3. Chapter 3

Wardens could walk great distances without fatigue, their stamina unnervingly inhuman. They stopped to rest a time or two, for Wynne Zevran presumed, as Zevran himself remained too stubborn to exhaust. 

After their heroic sweep through Kinloch hold and upon returning to camp, the Warden insisted they all took care of themselves, bathing and resting while she continued her duty. Checking in with other companions, getting news from Bodahn, pouring over maps and plotting their next move. 

Life alongside the Warden remained under constant comparison to the one Zevran had left behind, and he often found himself lost in introspection; silent, sullen, wanting for time alone. 

While Zevran had never worked alongside his former Master, he couldn’t imagine him being so generous with his time and attention as the Warden. The Master gave instructions, one did as instructed and didn’t fuck it up. The choice of bidding for a contract was illusory; if one did not bid and bring in coin, one’s life was forfeit. While knowing the Warden had no reason or intent to kill him, Zevran still bore a seemingly irrational sense of her inevitable desire to do so. 

Nyla debriefed those of what had happened while they were away, and Zevran rather liked the Warden’s tendency to be inclusive. Despite being stretched thin, she made herself available for questions and curiosity, telling them everything even though they had no reason to know. Zevran, himself, had never informed Taliesen and Rinna of any particulars as they had worked together. If one returned, one succeeded, and that was all that mattered.

After a splash in a cold lake, cleaning his armor, eating his bland ration of dried meat with bread and sitting down to mix his poisons, Zevran wondered when they would shut the fuck up and let her rest; or when  _ she  _ would shut the fuck up and rest. He felt antsy with her running around, waiting for her to  _ need _ something, or request anything of him. 

Zevran simply could not relax with his new Warden Master around, feeling her watchful eyes as she waited for him to fuck up; frustrating, possibly paranoid nonsense, as he witnessed his own internal workings while unable to stop them.

“Warden.” He called from his seat in front of his tent, interrupting her purposeful stride. 

“Yes! Hello!” She stopped in front of him, her mabari knocking into her calves and making her stumble a little; a common occurrence followed by her usual minimal reaction. “Were you greeting me or ah… did you want something? Need something?”

He couldn’t help a nervous chuckle, taken aback by her keen attention on him, and how it surprised him every time. “Surely you need to rest and sate your Warden appetites at this hour.” 

“Yes, I am exhausted and starving. Why?” She spoke with a sly smile, “Are you expressing concern, Crow?”

“Of course not.” Startled, he furrowed his brow and busied his hands with his mortar and pestle. She crouched in front of him and cocked her head, those dark eyes surveying him. He had given the quick answer, the habitual one, and it still rang true. “Not as such. No.”

Zevran relaxed, meeting her eyes when he heard her giggle. 

“Zevran, the relentless tease,” the Warden replied with playful inflections. 

“Teasing you with concern?” He returned her smile, glad for her attention and the softness of her company. “Warden longs for concern?” 

“Sort of? I like knowing people care about me.” She nodded casually as if it were a rational thing. “Is it different for you?” 

The ginger hair and blue eyes of Rinna came to mind, startling him, making his chest ache. “Warden, I wouldn’t know care if it slit my throat and spit on me.” Frustrating, how this woman always brought every conversation to fucking feelings. “Go handle your Warden things and relax so I can, no?” 

“You can relax whether or not I’m relaxed.” She blinked a few times and met his eyes while pinching her lower lip gently between two fingers. “Zevran… I am the one you defer to, but I’m not your master.” He continued to work his dried herbs already crushed to a fine powder. Her eyes raked over him, landing for a moment on the mortar and pestle before saying softly, “I’ve upset you.” 

His heart leaped with the poignant fear of having feelings in front of the Master. She said she was not the Master, but despite his efforts, he couldn’t conceptualize her as such. Why did this woman toy with him so? Before he could deny or confirm her assertion, her eyes lit up as if she had a brilliant idea.

“Zevran, will you erect Wynne’s tent, please?” 

Profound relief, as the Warden told him what she wished of him; this was much simpler. “Yes, Warden.” He stood with her. “Zevran is good at erections.” 

Nyla giggled and snorted for a few moments, and Zevran couldn’t help his sly smile. Was it him, or did the Warden have an affinity for dick jokes? She strolled alongside him as they headed the same direction.

“Zev, I am familiar with the dynamics between assassin and master. Assassin akin to slave and such. You need to unlearn that. A tall order, I know, but ah… take time to mull that over.” She stopped with him and spoke with a good natured smile, “Maybe have a disturbing, epiphanic, self-discovery or something in the dead of night while you’re trying to sleep. That's my favorite time to do it, anyhow.” 

The assassin had no words, and she looked away from his eyes and to her boots, hands clasped behind her back.

“Awkward, Warden?” He asked to break the tension, and she met his gaze again with a wide smile and sparkling eyes that made his skin tingle; a feeling unique to being with her, this woman he could sometimes call friend.  

“Sometimes I stumble on the part where it’s time to end a conversation when I don’t want to.” She ended the conversation by walking away, her Mabari on her heel, as always. 

Upon finishing Wynne’s tent, his poisons, double checking his gear for readiness, Zevran saw the Warden standing with Morrigan, who preferred to have her own campsite. The women seemed to get on well enough, though their relationship tended to be a little antagonistic as far as Zevran could tell. 

Zevran eventually tired of watching the Warden busybody, and with one final glance over his shoulder, went to the lake to be away from her. After finding a sturdy tree to climb, he sat in quiet contemplation while looking out on the moonlit water. It soothed him, reminding him of home despite the chill on the air. 

He thought of the Warden, and Zevran couldn’t tell half the time whether or not she was trying to torment him. This was what masters did; they tormented, found your weaknesses, used them to control. _‘I am the one you defer to, but I’m not your master,’_ she said. But she was. _Trying to call me free, Warden?_ He wasn’t free, when she even instructed him what to do with his thoughts, and he listened. He hadn’t forgotten he was supposed to do this thinking while trying to sleep, either. _Fuck,_ how his mind like to complicate the smallest things _._

Zevran bit his lip, resting the back of his head against the trunk of the tree. He had pledged himself to her and it had been his choice to do so. She had already accepted him  _ before  _ he had spoken his oath. Why did he speak it when his word alone had been sufficient? Did he need a master? No, he needed to stay with her for protection from the Crows. Or perhaps he did need a master.

_ I don’t want to be your master.  _ Her stating this seemed without context, as if responding to her own fucking thoughts-  _ this  _ was what frustrated him! She spoke as if having deeper understanding, but offered so little! How was she  _ not _ the master? She saw  _ everything,  _ she heard  _ everything!  _ She was far too cunning, knowing more than she shared. 

Prying for answers and remaining observant served its purpose- control. Manipulating him for control after he had explicitly submitted was precisely what a master would do. Apparently, his word and oath had not been sufficient... and there was no reason for them to be.

Nyla sometimes  _ felt _ like a friend, but why would she choose such a thing? It seemed far more likely she were simply another master. He could accept this, but it was harder to accept her trying to pretend otherwise. 

But she had fought for him  _ twice.  _ The first against her fellow Warden - who would never bed her if he kept being such a prick - and the second time during his own dream in the Fade. The Warden had been fierce. One did not approach such a situation with such ferocity if they didn’t  _ care.  _ Unless perhaps you were their property. 

The memory of her emphatic  _ ‘No!’  _ as she pulled him away from an exploding demon came to mind. Was it circumstance that had her stand in front of him after throwing him, or would she have truly taken a blow meant for him?  _ Fuck! What is happening? What am I? What am I to her? What am I doing?  _ He’d never had to ask these questions before; what a fucking mess.

The Warden walked beneath his perch, headed toward the lake. Just as Zevran opened his mouth to announce his presence, she turned around and pointed at her mabari. 

“Go to bed. I want to be alone.” He whined in response, and she waved her hands at him. “Oh, you. Shoo. Go on. Get somewhere.” 

Dog huffed and Zevran watched with a smile as the mabari skulked away. Mabari were apparently skilled pouters. As Zevran turned his gaze back to the Warden, he opened his mouth to speak as her leather chestplate hit the ground.  _ Shit! _ Zevran bit his lip hard, cringing. Her breast band slipped away, followed by her satisfied groan.  _ Oh my shit.  _ With her back toward him, he saw her smooth, unscarred, noble skin.  _ Battle maiden. The last Cousland. Where did the rest of them go?  _

Of course she had to reach high and stretch, displaying every curve and every muscle of her back and arms. Lovely shape. Toned, lean, feminine, muscular. Boots pulled off, the rest of her leathers fell away. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been watching, but how could he look away? Such long legs. Breathtaking, when she pulled the hairpins from her bun and dark hair unraveled, so long it covered her small, muscular bottom. Brushing her long hair with gentle fingers, it splayed across her bare back.  _ Lovely hair, lovely, moonlit Warden.  _

She stuck a foot in the water and backed away. Zevran pursed his lips so not to chuckle.  _ Cold, isn’t it?  _ Withholding the urge to shout  _ ‘Just jump in and get it over with’,  _ he watched with rapt attention as she crouched down and splashed herself. One arm at a time, water, soap and then water again, methodically washing in the cool night air; surely submerging completely would have been more efficient and comfortable than this. 

Zevran averted his gaze because some respect should be offered. It was far too late to inform her of his presence without causing the Ferelden noblewoman excessive embarrassment and getting him into more trouble than he was in the mood to deal with. In hindsight, he should have said something immediately, despite her exposed bosom.  _ Who are you trying to fucking deceive here, Zevran? You wanted to watch.  _ Staring at the leaves overhead, the assassin adjusted his erection. 

_ Rinna.  _ A fierce ache accompanied the sudden memory of her; dark skin beneath his palms, her sultry smile. He rested a hand on his chest with eyes closed, feeling the urge to roll from his perch to end it. 

_Te amo, Zevran._ Was her admission of love real? Was she simply bargaining for her life? These questions would never have an answer which wouldn’t sting. If only remorse could bring back the dead. Cheeks burned and eyes stung as he hugged his knees in realizing he missed them both. His whole life was different; thrust into wildly unfamiliar territory.

In his periphery, the Warden dressed herself in plainclothes. When she sat on the ground to hug her knees, there was a subtle comfort in sitting with her in silence. Zevran wondered if she sought solitude to fight off her aches same as he, and if she would be comforted by his presence in the same way.

“Nyla?” Alistair’s voice rang out, startling Zevran from his reverie. 

“I’m here,” she called back, and moments later Alistair jogged up to her.

“I asked Dog where you were and he  _ pouted _ and turned his back toward me. I couldn’t find you  _ or _ the assassin. Honestly… it was disconcerting.” He chuckled and pointed toward the direction of camp. “And how did you manage to piss off the mabari?” 

“Let him pout. He knows he’s still my good boy. I just wanted to be alone.” Nyla shrugged, her eyes still on the water. “Zevran is around here somewhere. He’s been through a lot in the past couple of days.” 

“Haven’t we all?” Alistair asked softly, sitting on the grass beside her.

She nodded. “Of course, but he recently lost the only life he’s ever known, starting anew in unfamiliar territory.”

Alistair rested an arm around her shoulders. “Sounds like a familiar story.” 

“Sort of. Not really,” she replied softly. “Unlike Zevran, I was no slave. I can tell you from experience, he may be flippant and irritable right now but he’ll come around.” 

Zevran watched them with wide eyes and bated breath. Flippant? Perhaps. Irritable? How could she tell? He suddenly didn’t feel like hearing or seeing any more private business. Glancing around once more for an escape route, the rustling of leaves would surely attract their attention.  _ Perhaps I should just… say something.  _

“You like him,” Alistair began, clearing his throat. “You um… Do you? Like him?”

Nyla nodded, her elbows rested on her knees, her hands hung limp at the wrists. “It’s only been a few days, but there’s a way we… we sort of… match…” her voice trailed off, and after a few moments she answered. “I like him very much.”

_ Shit, Warden, that’s not what he meant.  _ Zevran inwardly cringed for her, understanding the nature of Alistair’s question while she apparently did not. Hilarious, how she saw everything else but not this obvious thing. Simultaneously, the assassin celebrated that she liked him very much. After a few moments of silence Alistair withdrew his arm and Zevran palmed his face. _ These fucking two.  _

Alistair cleared his throat again, clasping his hands in front of himself with a sigh; he apparently wasn’t very bright either, and the effort Zevran put toward not breaking their awkward silence with his laughter became painful.

“Alistair? I didn’t mean...” Nyla began, turning to face him. After a few moments she continued. “Not in the same way I like you.” 

“No?” Alistair purred, and even Zevran felt a little warm beholding his steamy gaze.

Nyla shook her head, wearing a shy, lopsided smile, and even Zevran felt his heart melt away. 

“I don’t see Zevran bringing me roses.” 

Alistair leaned toward her as if to kiss her, and judging by their hesitancy, Zevran suspected they were in unfamiliar territory. Their lips met, and Zevran relaxed with a puff of air, his shoulders going slack. Their kiss deepened, Alistair’s hand rested on the back of her head. Zevran couldn’t help brushing his own lips with his fingertips. 

With a flash of memory, Rinna’s soft mouth on his, the firm and demanding kiss of Taliesen, his smile faded and eyes moistened; being unwitnessed always seemed to give him less of what it took to withhold tears. 

The ache, however deep and painful, seemed to occur less frequently now that he no longer had to face Taliesen, and upon realizing this, Zevran felt some semblance of hope that the ache might someday leave him entirely.

Their long kiss broke, and Zevran watched their moonlit profiles with subtle envy, and fear for them and the mistake they were making. Such longing in their gazes, flushed cheeks, the Warden’s bosom heaving.  _ Such a mistake. They should stop.  _ With a relieved sigh, he remembered they weren’t Crows, and it wasn’t his business. 

“You… um…” Alistair kissed her once more, a little harder, and then backed away running a hand over his hair. “You wanted to be alone…”

Zevran internally cringed.  _ Stupid, Alistair. _ One didn’t seduce a woman by kissing her and running off; not in this context, anyway. 

“Well,” Nyla chuckled, looking away from him and at the ground. “I am… emotionally preparing to wash my hair. You might as well do what you need to do. I may be awhile.”

“I could help you?” Alistair offered, eagerness in his sweet timbre. 

She grunted a little as she moved to sit on her knees. “I wouldn’t trouble you.” 

“Nyla,” he chuckled, picking up her bar of soap from the grass. “Let me help you.” 

“No, I-”

_ “Let me-”  _ Clenching the bar of soap in his fist, Alistair shook it at her.  _ “Dote!” _

“Oh,” Nyla giggled, tilting her head at him and batting her eyelashes, a subtle blush on her cheeks. “I didn’t know you were trying to dote.” 

“I will have to make my intent a little more clear next time.” He crooned with a smirk, “Lay on your back.”

The Warden turned her back toward the water, reclining and leaning on her elbows, looking up at Alistair with her lower lip pressed between her teeth. Zevran grinned, his eyebrows raising. The sexual tension between those fucking two was not only palpable, but seemingly transparent to them. 

“Wait…” Nyla stammered, abruptly sitting up, her startled gaze flicking back and forth between Alistair and the water. “It’s ah… it’s dark, and maybe-” She took a deep breath and whispered, “I feel foolish.”

With furrowed brow, Zevran realized the fearsome Warden feared the water; what a strange thing to fear. Alistair merely chuckled at her with his loving gaze. Sitting on his knees beside her, he guided her to lay down with one hand on the back of her head, the other on small of her back; an overtly sexual gesture which had Zevran wonder if this would be the moment to open the floodgates. More, he hoped this would remain as simple as hair washing - not that watching wasn’t fun.  _ Consensual  _ watching was fun. 

The moment the back of Nyla's head touched water, she gasped and held tight to Alistair’s arm, her body stiffened, she moved to sit up and he hushed her. 

“I’ve got you,” he crooned, encouraging her with gentle touches on her neck and arms to relax. “Just watch the stars.” 

“You’re prettier,” she whispered, and Alistair’s chuckle rescued a flirt that had fallen flat, given her wide, fearful stare. He soaped one hand while his other remained on the back of her neck, and with slow, deliberate movements, worked his fingers along her scalp. 

“Nyla? I’m about to grab a small stick floating toward us.” Alistair spoke with such gentle patience, and Zevran had a chance to see how the handsome Warden wasn’t always a prick. Nyla nodded, and the twig was retrieved and tossed away onto the grass. 

Having no idea how such trust could be cultivated, Zevran watched the man dote on the Warden; the way he cleaned her long locks with care, unhurried and gentle. It occurred as worship, and Zevran felt a degree of gratitude to bear witness. Sure, the assassin had washed a woman’s hair in the past, right before strangling her. Could he surrender to a hair washing without the looming fear of strangulation? Probably not, and he couldn’t deny he deserved as much. 

Alistair wrapped her hair around his fist several times to wring it out. After helping her sit up, Nyla reached for the towel and he intercepted her reach. “Let me.” 

With her head wrapped, they sat on their knees facing each other, and she looked up at Alistair with gleaming eyes. “Thank you.” 

“Anytime.” He smiled, and she reached out to him. They held each other in silence; tired of being stuck in a tree, Zevran hoped they wouldn’t sit there all night and cuddle. 

“I think it’s time for me to cut my hair,” Nyla spoke as they laid on the grass, settling in each other's arms. Zevran feared they may indeed cuddle there all night, and the thought of it had him put serious consideration into surrendering his position. 

“It lends to your beauty.” Alistair’s hand wandered up and down her arm affectionately. “You shouldn’t have to cut it if you don’t want to.” 

“I pull it up into a bun anyway, it seems like it would be simpler to have short hair.” 

Zevran rolled his eyes, shifting on his rough perch which had long ago made his legs stiff and ass itch; any novelty in watching the couple had officially worn off. 

“It would be simpler, for sure, but it only takes a little effort to allow me to help you with it.” 

“Oh, that’s nice,” Nyla giggled, resting her chin on his chest and looking up at him with moon eyes. “Just drop my problem onto you, hmm?” 

“I happen to  _ enjoy  _ doing nice things for you,” he responded with a frown. “I wish I knew how to braid. You would look lovely with a braid.” 

“I can braid it but it looks the same as the bun. Just pulled back tight.” 

“No I mean the ones that start at the top of your head.” He continued after a thoughtful hum. “What are they called?”

“It’s called a three-strand underbraid. I have never had to do it myself so I don’t know how to.” After a long pause she continued softly, “My mother would often do it for me.”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair whispered, stroking her back.

Just as Zevran plunked the back of his head against the trunk of the tree, surrendering to his fate of hearing two lovebirds chatter on about nothing for the rest of his fucking life, Nyla sat up, removed the towel from her head and twisted her hair into a bun. 

“As lovely as it is to rest in your arms, Alistair, I need to eat.” 

“You haven’t yet?” Alistair asked, standing quickly and offering his hand. “You must be starving. Don’t you think you’re neglecting yourself?” 

“A little. It’s just been a busy evening.”

“Are you through for tonight?” Alistair offered the Wardan an arm to hold, and Zevran held his breath as they strolled beneath him. “Can I help with anything?”

“I’m mostly done for the night. I wanted to spend a little time with Zevran, make sure he’s alright.” 

Zevran glared at her back.  _ Of course I’m alright.  _ They stopped walking and Zevran rolled his eyes.  _ Ugh. Go. Away.  _

“Nyla,” Alistair began, his hands resting on her arms. “Please be careful with him. He could still turn on us. I understand the need to know our companions, but he’s a Crow.”   


Annoying, how Zevran seemed to be the talk of the fucking town.

“No,” Nyla spoke firmly. “He  _ was _ a Crow. Now he’s a friend.” A few moments silence followed. “Befriend him.” 

Alistair scrubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “I can’t think of him as anything other than the assassin.” 

“You can, and you should.” Nyla rested a hand on his chest and appeared distracted by the feel of him beneath her palm. She licked her lips, withdrew her hand and cleared her throat. “Pushing him away increases the risk of what you fear. Befriend him. Make an ally of him.” 

Zevran smiled.  _ Smart, lovely Warden. _ They resumed walking, and Zevran waited a few minutes before climbing down to the loud rustle of dried leaves.  _ Fucking Ferelden. _ Dead leaves crunched underfoot; at least he had respite from the mud. Sneaking around the camp to appear as if arriving from a different direction, he avoided eyes and stood by the fire. Being so close to the warmth had him realize how cold he had been, and he shivered a little, rubbing his arms.  _ Fucking Ferelden. _

Several minutes passed, listening to the calming sounds of the Ferelden night and the crackle of the campfire. Fatigue washed over Zevran as he watched flames lick the nighttime sky, and he wondered where the Wardens had gone off to; surely they should have been back by then.

Leliana paced toward the campfire; fully armed, as it was her watch. “Zevran.” 

“Leliana,” he purred, taking in her shapely lips and the gleam of her red hair in the firelight. 

How was he surrounded by such attractive people? Even the old mage was a looker. And Sten, with his impressive musculature and chiseled jaw; a hornless Qunari was a rare sight to behold. Classically handsome Alistair; tall, masculine build and charming, young face. The slight frame and unrelenting side bosom of Morrigan. Warden and her big, dark eyes, full lips. Toned and lean. Long legs.  _ Such long, long legs _ . A smile to die for. Where were those fucking two? 

No sooner than Zevran asked himself the question, he heard them approach; the unmistakable sound of tinkling, snorty laughter in the distance. Seconds later, Nyla stumbled from the brush, clutching her sides in raucous laughter with Alistair close behind, reaching out reflexively as if he could catch her. Glancing at a giggling Leliana, Zevran smiled, wondering what had been so funny as they stumbled into each other again in breathless hysterics.

They parted, looking away from each other to catch their breath. Simultaneously, they looked at each other again, Alistair raised a hand as if to speak and lost himself, laughing. The Warden’s laughter reduced to only snorts, she backed away from him, raising her hands in a gesture for him to stop. 

“These fucking two,” Zevran muttered, resting his hands on his hips.

Leliana giggled. “Indeed.”

“Do you think she realizes her ridiculous laugh?” Zevran asked, pursing his lips to withhold his own urge to laugh with them.

“Honestly?” Leliana spoke through tapering giggles, finally looking at him. “I have no idea. Perhaps she is used to it.” 

Zevran nodded, and Leliana looked away from him. Alistair said he could only see Zevran as the assassin, did Leliana also see him as such? “I saw you with a lute, Leliana. You play?”

“Yes.” Her eyes lit up, and she smiled at him. “Do you?”

“A little.” Zevran replied, sitting down on a log and Leliana stepped closer; a welcoming gesture. “Feel like playing?” 

“Not while I’m on watch. Ask me again later?” 

The Warden sat down next to Zevran and giggled to herself as she set a plate on her knees, piled high with enough to feed four. “I feel you approaching, Alistair, I said go to bed.” 

“I intend to, I was just getting my water skin.” Alistair leaned down, ran gentle fingers along the back of the Warden’s exposed neck and whispered, “So bossy.” 

The Warden spent several moments with eyes wide and mouth hung half open before pulling herself together. What was it like to be shaken to one’s very core by so simple a touch? 

Genuine affectionate gestures were not something Zevran had regular opportunity to witness in such close proximity, and he wondered if he could ever become accustomed to it. Perhaps one day he would find someone, caress the back of their neck and remember a time when even seeing such a thing was foreign; he also feared for the one who might fall for someone such as he.

Alistair patted Zevran’s shoulder as he walked by. “Make sure she goes to sleep, will you, Zev?”

Before he could express his displeasure of being touched unconsented, Zevran was taken aback by what seemed like a gesture of camaraderie. Zevran simply nodded and said, “Sure, Alistair.” Alistair had apparently taken Nyla’s advice of  _ ‘befriending the assassin’  _ rather seriously. 

“To be clear,” Alistair stopped and looked at him, pointing a finger. “I mean a  _ regular _ sleep. Not... the big one.”

Nyla laughed, covering her mouth full of food with the back of her hand, continuing with a full mouth. “It is a rule, that from now on we refer to death as ‘the big sleep’. Now go the fuck to bed so I can function.” 

“Leliana.” Alistair pursed his lips, repressing laughter. “Your job is to make sure Zevran makes sure she regular sleeps.” 

“Yes ser,” Leliana chuckled. “Not the big one.”

“Yes. Wynne.” Alistair looked at the mage emerging from her tent. “I need you to make sure Leliana is making sure Zevran is making sure that Nyla goes to regular sleep.” 

“Trouble sleeping? I have an herb for that.” Wynne fled back into her tent. 

“Maker’s breath.” Nyla shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Just ignore the joke, Wynne. That’s fine.” She stuffed her mouth with meat and bread, and Dog stalked over to curl up at her feet.

“I’m going to patrol,” Leliana spoke to no one in particular and walked toward the edge of their encampment as Alistair retreated into his tent with waterskin in hand. 

“You said you could feel Alistair approaching?” Zevran asked.

“Yes, the taint in our blood, what makes us Wardens, we sense in each other. We can sense darkspawn as well.” She spoke through the food in her mouth, “Excuse me for speaking with my mouth full.” 

Zevran waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “What else does this taint do for you?” 

She giggled and cleared her throat. “Sorry, I just ah… I don’t normally sit around and talk about my taint.”

Zevran laughed at the noblewoman’s dick joke without a dick in it, and Nyla seemed pleased with herself in hearing him.

“Stamina, as you have probably noticed. Abnormally large appetites,” she gestured to her half-empty plate and continued, “as you have probably noticed. And my two favorites, sterility and nightmares.” 

“Excessive stamina.” With a playful smirk Zevran added, “And  _ appetites, _ you say?” 

She returned his smirk. “Make of that what you will.”

Wynne stepped out of her tent, interrupting the potential hole Zevran could have dug himself into.

“Here you are, dear. Make yourself some tea with this, it’ll help you rest. Unless you prefer a spell?” 

Nyla took the small pouch from Wynne and set it next to herself. “A sleep spell? How handy. Do you ever use it on yourself?” 

“Old ladies don’t need help to rest, dear. Good night.” 

“Thank you, Wynne.” Nyla waited for Wynne to enter her tent before turning her attention back to Zevran with a smile. “She realizes she hasn’t been old forever, doesn’t she?”

“In my experience, Warden, those who live to become old pride themselves in it, and take every opportunity to mention it.” 

“Mmm!” Nyla nodded emphatically, swallowing a mouthful of food. “You’re right! But she’s not even that goddamn old. She can’t be older than fifty. Trying to grab that trophy a little prematurely, if you asked me.” 

Silence followed as she finished her meal. Zevran watched her in his periphery as he pointed his gaze toward the fire, exhausted, but he had agreed to make sure she went to regular sleep. 

“Much better.” She put her plate down with a satisfied sigh. “You look tired, you don’t have to stay awake on my account. I will rest at some point.” 

“At some point?” He tilted his head at her, watching her lean back on her hands, stretch out her legs and use Dog as her footrest. 

“The world has gone mad, Zev. Everything is wrong. I can’t deny it haunts my sleep.” 

Zevran ran a hand through his hair; he knew all about haunted sleep. Remembering himself on a rack, he asked, “I am curious, Warden. The Tower… what was your dream? How did you get out?” 

“Weisshaupt. If there were any Wardens left, that’s where they would be.” She released a rich sigh, and in his periphery Zevran could see her watch him as she told her dream. “The blight was over. Duncan said we won, but I had no memory of winning anything. I remembered only Alistair fighting after we lit the signal.” 

“Oh?” Zevran looked at her, and the flicker of fatigue and sadness in her gaze had his breath catch in his throat.

“Back at Ostagar, Alistair and I were charged with lighting the signal fire, which would summon our reinforcements. After lighting it, I had taken a few arrows. Here.” She rested a palm on her chest and chuckled through her nose. “Not something I should have survived. I watched Alistair fight hard before I lost consciousness. He had called out to me. I can’t remember his words, but I remember how I felt as he said them.” With her eyes toward the fire but her gaze so far away she whispered, “They betrayed us.”

In watching Nyla, he recognized the face of one lost in a memory of horror, much like seeing a child reflect on his first kill. “Warden? What does this have to do with your Fade dream?” 

“Oh.” Her eyes snapped toward him again. “It was the memory of his fighting outnumbered, the sense of urgency I felt when Alistair spoke to me. I  _ had _ to live. He didn’t fight so hard just for us to sleep to death because of a sloth demon.” 

“Your will was stronger than the demon’s spell. Like the will you witnessed in Alistair.”

_ “Yes,”  _ she hissed, enunciating with a pointed finger. “Without him, I would not be here.” She sighed, her shoulders relaxing. “And what about you? How are you faring after your Fade dream?”

“It is as I said before.” He shrugged with a lopsided smile. “Nothing like a good racking.” 

“You came out of it rather quickly. The others took far more convincing.”

He shrugged, remembering her ferocity, how she had fought for him. “The Warden wasn’t supposed to be at a trial.” 

Nyla’s curious stare rested on him for a time, making him eager to hear her words. “These trials… they happened often?” 

“Of course. One must be tough to be a Crow. They put a lot of training into pain tolerance.” 

“Pain tolerance training.” Her gaze turned soft, and so did Zevran, despite himself. “I think torture is the word I might use for that.” 

He nodded, flinching a little with a spark of anger. “This feels normal to me. They purchased me at seven years old.” 

“So young?” Her eyebrows knitted together. “Hearing you call it normal just makes it… worse.”

“This may occur to you as wrong, Warden, but I do not see it as such. I trained hard. I passed my trials.” 

_ “Trained?”  _ She asked incredulously, turning her body toward him, straddling the log they sat upon. “That’s not training. At seven, I played. I learned books from my governess, politics from my father, knitting and sewing from my mother, how to fight using wooden daggers. I am educated, I can fight, manipulate, kill, endure pain, and none of it required torture.”

_ Torture.  _ He stared back at the noblewoman with a glare and a sly smile; if she thought her training had been better or yielded similar results, she was mistaken, and he was not willing to argue the point; nor did he feel the need to. “Angry, Warden?” 

“Not at you.” She looked away from him with glistening eyes, and he melted. 

_ Crying for me, Warden?  _ He shook his head with smirk.  _ She’s just tired. _ “They trained me, gave me a good life. It was not without its benefits.” He shrugged in a gesture of nonchalance she clearly didn’t buy, given her challenging stare.

“Such as?” 

“Respect, a little coin, women, men.” He shrugged again. “And I happen to enjoy killing.” 

Her hard stare faltered with her chuckle. “Well, that’s something.” 

“See? Not so bad,” he spoke with a shrug of his shoulders. 

She tilted her head at him. “Did you know you shrug when you’re trying to convince me that everything is okay even when it’s not?” 

The Warden’s words stung, but he had no sense of ill intent from her; it was confusing. He had nothing to say.

“Why are you here, Zevran?” She asked softly, her brow furrowed.

“Because I would be killed for my failure.” He shrugged again and pursed his lips, having caught himself in his own bullshit... which she immediately called him on.

“Bullshit. Nobody would know of your failure unless someone lived to tell the tale. You were the only one left alive. You could kill us right now, go back, and they would be none the wiser. Unless you were to tell on yourself and invite your own death.”

_ I might. _ His heart leaped within his chest. “I believe we agreed to call it the big sleep.” 

Nyla shook her head and asked calmly with a burning gaze. “Why am I alive and why are you here?” 

“Are you afraid that I might change my mind, Warden?” He purred, turning to face her, straddling the log and matching her posture. 

_ “No.” _ She enunciated with a shake of her head. “If you want to evade the question, do it explicitly. Would you like to know what I think?”

“Could I stop you?” He responded with a sly grin, beginning to find enjoyment in her passionate engagement. This passion, he would wager, was a product of her care, however misguided.

“Do you have it within you to even try?” Nyla was silent for a few moments, matching his smile, continuing when Zevran had no response. “I think you wanted out of the Crows long before I met you. I think it’s because they didn't break you. They couldn't.”

Zevran bit his lip, her dark eyes boring into him while he paused for thought. “Perhaps this is also true.”

Zevran could kill the Wardens, return to Antiva, and  _ become  _ the Master. It brought him pleasure to remember the Master’s frown while feeling the threat of losing his own house. However, Zevran still had no desire to be a master. 

“Yes, my Warden. Zevran wishes to remain free of the Crows and their gilded cage. Drink your tea, and go to regular sleep now.” 

“I’m not ready.” She pouted with a glare, folding her arms across her chest. “I want to talk more.” 

“Oh?” Zevran chuckled at fierce Warden pouting. He grabbed the pouch of tea leaves Wynne had given her. 

“No. Wait. What did you mean ‘perhaps that is also true’?” She scooted closer to him. “What’s the other thing that is also true? What else happened that made you want to leave the Crows?”  

He thought for a few moments with a spark of frustration; why did she notice every-fucking-thing?  _ How she fucking pries and… just straight to the heart of…  _ He laughed, rolling his eyes. “Warden, shut the fuck up and have your tea.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Zevran kept his eyes on the Warden, watching her sleep from where he sat close to the fire. For whatever reason, Nyla chose to sleep beneath the stars and had no tent of her own. 

Leliana’s patrolling compounded his restlessness, interrupted his thoughts, so he offered to take her watch. Her denial stung even as it made sense; of course the assassin couldn’t be on watch. He wondered again what it took to become more than just the assassin, or if it were a goal worthy of his efforts.

The cover of night had always brought Zevran comfort; the world passively hiding him beneath a blanket of darkness, respite from endless lessons and trials-  _ torture. Why did she have to fucking say that? _ Zevran chuckled through his nose, nibbling his thumb nail. 

He had been looking forward to sleep, exhaustion leaving him glassy eyed and stifling yawns; no more, his mind instead churned with something he couldn’t quite grasp. A resentment which almost made sense and wasn’t about his former Master. It appeared Zevran resented his life. Or regretted it. _Regret what?_ _No, my life as a Crow was a good life._

_ ‘You wanted out of the Crows. Because they didn't break you. They couldn't.’   _

_Dammit, Warden, why do you say such things?_ _They weren’t breaking me, they were strengthening me._ Breaking, torture, slave and master; where did the Warden get this stuff? 

_ ‘This one has spirit. It’s a shame we have to break him.’  _ Memories of his fade dream seemed to blur with his experiences of reality. For all he knew, the Fade dream itself could have been a repeat of what had happened in his own past, and he remained unsure of what it meant to  _ ‘break.’  _

Throughout the duration of his training, it often seemed to Zevran they were exceptionally hard on him; more trials than Taliesen, and more battered and bruised on the regular. It had confused Zevran at the time, giving him feelings of inadequacy, driving him to try harder. The Master seemed to have exceptional loathing for Zevran, the smallest of elves. Despite exemplary performance, there was no pleasing the Master. Still, Zevran persevered, succeeded and reaped the benefits, but he did not break. Not from the training, anyhow.

 

_ “I wouldn’t betray you!” Wide, tearful eyes implored him to take her word, as if he hadn’t seen her feign innocence before. “I love you, Zev.” _

_ Zevran’s laugh reflected his disgust and masked his hurt as he bent down to one knee, his face inches from hers to make her meet the eyes of one she had betrayed. The time had long passed for nicknames and proclamations of ‘love’, as if any of them could know what that word meant. He glared and growled with teeth bared, “Even if that were true,  _ **_Rinnala_ ** _ , why the fuck would I care?” _

 

The twitch of her eyes, quivering lips, her bosom rising and falling with quickened, fearful breaths played in his mind’s eye.  _ Did I have to spit on her as she died? _ Pressing a palm to his aching chest, he couldn’t recognize that cruelty in himself, couldn’t imagine himself treating Rinna in such a way, and for all his training, this was not a pain for which he had been prepared.  _ How did I do that to her?  _

He should have known better than to indulge in such an attachment, but he hadn’t done it on purpose. He didn’t  _ choose  _ the closeness. She was so… something. Alluring. Masterful in her work. Devious, cunning, ruthless… everything he admired in a comrade. And soft. Her touch was  _ good! _ Familiar. No one had ever trusted him enough to sleep so peacefully at his side; not even Taliesen.  _ How did I do this to her?  _ The question left him reeling, like his memory of her.

The way her hands moved with grace as she communicated in moments of stealth, her eyes gleaming, forehead wrinkled. Breathy whispers in the night as they drifted into sleep. The way Taliesen’s lips met his, the scruff on his chin scratching in a familiar and pleasant way while Rinna writhed between them. Their commingled scents after they laid spent together. Passionate moments were only made better with her involvement, just like their missions.  _ Damn you Taliesen.  _ He loathed the man as much as he mourned him; he was just as responsible for the violent death of Rinna as anyone. 

Their trio had died with Rinna, his resentment for Taliesen too strong to have what they had before, yet he felt suffocated by the newness of his life. Too abrupt. Too big.  _ Who am I without them? Without Crows? A stranger amongst Wardens in muddy fucking Ferelden.  _

It would only be a matter of time before Crows spotted him with Wardens, discovered he hadn’t died. He could  _ still _ kill the Wardens. He could do it right then. Leliana first, followed by dog. The Warden would wake in hearing the scuffle, she would be third. But then everyone would wake and he would be outnumbered. 

Zevran’s gaze drifted to the cast iron pot beside the campfire. He could sneak away and back, drop in a little something, and they would be none the wiser. Then go home. 

_ Go home and do what?  _ Be nothing more than a disposable tool and wait for death.  _ There is nothing to go back to,  _ he thought, remembering the loss of his partners in a wash of grief.

After he had become an assassin, the trials had become less about pain tolerance, and more about applying the talents they had bestowed upon him. A little skill, a great deal of luck, Zevran  had done well; even better with Tali and Rinna. Within their trio, Zevran had experienced something like contentment, even happiness. That he had found it in the first place seemed to be happenstance or luck, and Maker only knew if Zevran could find it again. 

Leliana patrolled past Zevran again, and he took a deep, calming breath, wondering how he got lost in his mind to writhe in his aches. These things had always been so easy to fight, why no more? He blamed the Warden with her disarming words and probing questions, but didn’t have it in himself to resent her for it. The Warden’s way seemed to be more about curiosity, or something of the sort, rather than forcing hurt upon him; that he hurt was his own problem.

He missed his home. Balmy night air, hot, humid days, the scent of leather and the sea, foods which included spices apart from salt. The sound of Antivan in his ears, his mother tongue, everywhere he went. 

He sat with the recurring realization that he would never flourish beneath the heavy hand of Crows. If they hadn’t already decided it was time for him to die, they would eventually. He had no home.

A whimper caught his attention as the Warden’s mabari tromped up to him. At first, Zevran had no idea what to make of the beast’s intrusion. Dog laid down and nudged the back of Zevran’s hand with his wet nose. Caressing the top of Dog’s head and along a velvety ear, it was soothing to offer a kind touch, and to know it to be acceptable.

Dog rested his head on Zevran’s lap as if he belonged there, and it was a small comfort to have something warm and alive against him. Zevran wondered if Dog’s approach was a request, or if the mabari sensed the breaking and rebreaking of a rogue’s heart and sought to comfort.

With eyes on the Warden rested on her side, shoulder rising and falling with the steady rhythm of her sleeping breath, Zevran drifted off, letting sleep take him lest it never did.  


 

*******   


 

“Morning.” 

Alistair’s voice woke Zevran, and his eyes opened to see the Warden stirring a pot with a wooden spoon in one hand, a cup of tea in the other.    
  
“Hush, love,” the Warden whispered, gesturing toward Zevran with a tilt of her head. 

Taking this as permission to rest a little longer, Zevran closed his eyes. On the cusp of sleep, another blanket laid over him. Peering through half closed eyes he saw Alistair walking away; if Zevran wanted another blanket, he would have retrieved one. 

 

_ “Today’s lesson,” the trainer’s voice rung out, and the children watched her with wide eyes and bated breath. Holding up a deck of cards, she continued with a smirk, “Is fun.”  _

_ “Elf.” Pointing at Zevran, she commanded, “Stand there across the room.”  _

_ Ten-year-old Zevran obliged her, determined that whatever she commanded him to do, he would do well.  _

_ “Watch me.” She held a card aloft, with arm bent at the elbow. “You hold the card loosely between two fingers, index and middle.” _

_ Her arm straightened, a flick of her wrist; Zevran hissed at the sting of a cut on his forearm, caused by a simple playing card. _

_ “Hurts, no?” She glowered at him, flinging another card which nicked his cheek. _

_ Zevran pursed his lips and shook his head ‘no’. _

_ “Good. Taliesen. You two so enjoy working together. If I don’t see at least ten cuts on each of you by the end of the next hour, you will not eat or sleep. You will move rocks.”  _

 

“Zev?”

The Warden’s voice brought him to waking, and he sat up immediately, swiping a palm along the ghost of pain on his cheek, the memory of starvation and hauling stones lingering on the forefront of his thoughts.

“Don’t fret. It’s just me,” Nyla spoke softly, reaching toward him. 

In his startled, waking haze, Zevran deflected her hand with his own, glancing at her palm. A tumult of emotion rolled through him in beholding the stricken look in her eyes.  _ She  _ seemed hurt, but he hadn’t consented to touches. Even if her touches weren’t lethal, surely she didn’t expect him to allow her to pet him on a whim like some kind of domesticated animal.

Dog, the soft warmth he had been leaning upon, stood up, stretched and tromped away, but unfortunately did not take his scent with him; a bath was certainly in order. 

With a glance at the early morning sky, Zevran nodded and spoke, “Good morning, Warden.” 

“Leliana told me you arrived back at camp shortly before Alistair and I.” The Warden offered a hot cup of tea and he took it from her, holding his breath, waiting for her to ask where he had been. “If you wander from the fire, I would suggest dressing warmer, given your cold nature. You look rather pale for a brown man this morning.” 

Zevran nodded, keeping his face neutral, unsure if her inclination to insist he dress warm was endearing or obnoxious. Perhaps both.

“We’re headed east toward Denerim. This means our whole company is moving, including Bodahn and Sandal. We will make camp-” Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head, leaning closer to him. “Have I offended?”

He shook his head and offered a small smile. If he were being honest, which he would not, he didn’t feel well, physically or otherwise. He wanted her to go away before she said more disarming things, sending his thoughts to uncomfortable domains, twisting his insides and distracting him from matters at hand; he needed a break from that shit.

“Is there something you need?” She asked softly. 

He performed his best lighthearted mannerisms; a small smirk, a casual shrug. “Do I look like I need anything?”

The Warden met his smile with one much warmer. “Would you ask anything of me, should you need it?” 

How her kindness made his heart ache. “Are you saying I should?” 

She moved her head and neck in such a way, commanding his eyes to meet hers, and only when he obliged her, she answered. “Is friendship so foreign to you?” 

_ Don’t fucking start, Warden.  _ “Will you go be delicious elsewhere while Zevran prepares to leave?” 

“Okay,” she replied through a chuckle. The Warden’s enjoyment of flattery was never a disappointment, as she blushed and smiled and bounded away.

And that was it. Apparently, if Zevran wanted the Warden to leave, all he had to do was ask; there was no action, no word that she could put out there that didn’t cause him to ache.  


 

*******   


 

“You must know that murder is wrong, I assume,” Wynne spoke from beside the assassin. 

This was fun, being pulled from his musings by something so random from a woman who had never offered him so much as the time of day. “I’m sorry… are you speaking to me?” 

“That is why you wish to leave your Crows. A crisis of conscience.”

Zevran looked at her with feigned excitement; she wouldn’t be the first to imagine she understood him, not that it mattered to him whether or not she did. “Yes, that is  _ exactly  _ it.” 

“Joke if you wish,” she replied in what Zevran imagined to be a practiced, grandmotherly, know-it-all tone. “But I have the feeling that deep down you regret the life you have lived.” 

Poignant, and completely true. But  _ deep down? _ Nah, it was right there in plain sight. Regret  _ murder?  _ ... Sometimes. Perhaps she liked him, in order to be thinking about him at such great length. He smirked at her and shrugged. “It’s true, I regret it all.” 

“Must you be such a child? Are you incapable of a single, serious conversation?”

Scolding, shaming, he had his share; what made her think he was susceptible to it at his age, and from a woman he barely knew? Besides, he wasn’t lying. 

Wynne may have been probing and observant, but she was no Warden; Wynne ultimately didn’t give a shit about him, only wanted to remind him of his worth.

“I know, Wynne. I am terrible and it makes me sad. May I rest my head in your bosom? I wish to cry.” He took a step closer to her. 

She stepped away, amusement in her eyes which didn’t match her stern tone. “You can cry well away from my bosom, I’m certain.” 

“Did I tell you I was an orphan?” He spoke in mock sadness, continuing with a wistful sigh. “I never knew my mother.”

The sound of blades drawn caught their attention, eyes snapping to the Warden pair heading up the front. The others followed suit before Nyla called out to them.

“Darkspawn ahead. Bodahn, take cover.” 

The Warden stalked with more purpose. As always, her blades were held too high, leaving her midsection vulnerable. Perhaps she might allow him to guide her someday; preferably before she got stabbed.

Once Zevran got past the horror of darkspawn, which was easy after encountering abominations, killing them turned out to be fun.

Easy, in fact. Charging from one monster to the next, he spilled their blood with a laugh; Zevran was the good guy fighting alongside his fellow good guys. There was no human element to consider. He had no reason or impulse to ask the Maker’s forgiveness. There was only the satisfaction of his blades piercing flesh, doing what he was born to do: Kill. 

One thing that stood out about darkspawn were their rudimentary fighting skills. Arrows were often poorly aimed, weapons swung with no forethought other than to hit. Clumsy, easy targets. The only things they had going for them were their numbers and their chaos; hard to anticipate the movements of one with no plan. Still, he could do with a little more of a challenge.

A problematic archer sat up high on a hill behind the cover of the brush, plinking the occasional arrow off of Alistair’s armor. Damned Ferelden and its hilly landscapes; Zevran had few arrows, and no clear shot. The Warden called to Zevran about breaking formation as he ran; he didn’t stop, and he hadn’t expected her to follow. 

Leaping upon the archer, Zevran felled the beast with a longsword in its back. He turned just in time to see the blood spatter of a withdrawn blade… the  _ Warden’s  _ blood taking flight, a pained and fearful cry ringing out around him, her head whipped to the side, stricken by the back of a darkspawn hand. It all happened so fast, and somehow so slowly. Everything stopped being fun. 

The feral howl of a mabari warhound cut through the din of battle, and Dog barrelled toward the creature who dared harm his mistress, heavy footfalls flinging dampened earth in his wake. With a feral growl, the warhound leaped upon the darkspawn and tore at its throat.  _ Good Dog.  _

The Warden writhed on the ground, blood seeping through bared teeth. With pain clouding her eyes, she still attempted to sit up; he respected that, even if it was stupid. 

_ “Stay down!” _ Zevran called out, another arrow whistled past them. Two mages and none to be found as he swung his bow around, practiced fingers nocking an arrow to release it just as quickly. 

Seeing her curled up and motionless on the ground hit him harder than he anticipated; another new and unpleasant feeling the Warden brought up, as per her usual. What would he do without her? Die, most likely. 

Two more darkspawn approached, and he rapidly loosed another arrow. The glow of healing magics surrounded the Warden as well as a barrier, and he released a puff of air, firing another arrow at another approaching beast. Zevran surveyed their battlefield, turning to see Leliana behead the last of them. 

There were distinctions which stood out to Zevran; the difference between fighting alongside Crows and fighting with the Wardens. With Crows, you either picked yourself up off the ground, or you did not, expediency oftentimes more valuable than life. Zevran watched them fuss over each other in hurried eagerness, and Wynne healed his superficial scrapes and cuts with barely a thought, not even pausing for his thanks. 

“So…” Gesturing toward Nyla, a question on the tip of his tongue, he didn’t want to betray his fear or examine it. “How long does she have?” He asked playfully, earning him a satisfying glare from everyone, apart from Sten who, Zevran imagined, had the same question.

“She’ll be fine,” Wynne spoke patiently. 

They all chose a direction, and Zevran witnessed everyone survey darkspawn corpses and take anything of value. All was normal until something occurred to him, causing a fair bit of confusion.  _ Darkspawn carry coin. What the fuck does a darkspawn do with currency?  _ Bodahn and his boy Sandal came out of hiding and offered assistance. Alistair cradled Nyla in his arms, and Zevran stayed beside them, should they need anything. 

“That was foolish,” Alistair whispered, wiping the blood from her mouth.

“I’m alright,” she replied, her hand raising to touch her healed middle. “I’d never been stabbed before.” 

“Really? Never once?” Alistair released a shaky chuckle. “How did you like it?”

“It was shitty,” Nyla replied with a small smile. “Help me up.”

Zevran couldn’t recall the first time he had been stabbed, but he knew the pain of it, and the exhaustion that followed the loss of blood; the Wardens were fortunate to have a skilled healer and permission to use her. With eyes taking in the Warden’s grey pallor, Zevran helped Alistair pull her to standing; the skin of her exposed bicep felt too cold beneath his palm, and Nyla stumbled a little while whipping her head around as she gathered her bearings.

“Easy. I’ll get you some water,” Alistair spoke gently, leaving Zevran alone with her. 

Zevran feared she would fall as she wavered on her feet, and he helped her remain standing, positioning himself close in front of her with a firm grasp on her arms. 

“I guess I can cross that off my list. Survive being run through.” Nyla smiled at him, her white teeth bloodied, smearing onto plump lips he had a very sudden urge to kiss; the thrill of battle often gave him such imaginings. “Two things, actually. Survive being run through, and be simultaneously fawned over by two fine men, but I didn’t expect these things to happen so close together.” She giggled breathlessly, looking up at him with big, dark eyes that held a residual fear. 

Normally he would have laughed, would have had the clever words she sought to hear, but the sight of blood, the thrumming of it coursing through heated limbs after the rush of battle, left him with a sense of stillness, peace, and arousal. How many times had he kissed the bloodied lips of Taliesen? Zevran pulled a clean cloth from the pouch on his hip and held it out to her.

“Thank you,” Nyla whispered, taking the cloth, her tired gaze drifting away from his face as she trudged away.  


 

*******   


 

Another camp next to another body of water in cold fucking Ferelden. Zevran sat in a tree and stared out on the moonlit water, a blanket over his shoulders. Gentle winds stirred dried leaves, and if he imagined hard enough, he could hear the ocean in them. 

He felt significantly more relaxed compared to previous nights. He had killed undoubtedly evil things, had a bath, ate a good sized meal; a good life apart from the looming threat of an all consuming Blight, which didn’t seem to trouble the assassin much at all. 

The Warden walked beneath him, headed toward the lake.  _ Why? _ He had waited until she had returned to camp with Alistair, clean of blood and her wet hair in a tight bun. One thing for sure, he would  _ not  _ be left in another awkward predicament; stuck in a tree to protect the sensibilities of an uptight Ferelden noblewoman.

“Warden,” he crooned, and she stopped mid-stride, Dog bumping into her calves and making her stumble a little. Watching her eyebrows draw together, her head tilted with a subtle incline, she looked around, turning in a complete circle, meanwhile, Dog looked up at him with what appeared to be a smile. 

“Zevran?” She spoke as if unsure she had heard him at all. 

“You heard me, deadly sex goddess,” he purred as she kept looking for him, confusion in her gaze but wearing a wide grin. “I’m fucking  _ above  _ you, Warden,” he spoke with a chuckle. 

“You’re doing what above me?” She looked up at the darkness with her wide smile and big, dark eyes. “Surely you jest.” 

He laughed. “Come up here and find out.” 

Nyla’s eyes flicked along the straight trunk of the tree. “How did you get up there?” 

“I jumped and grabbed the lowest limb.” He laid on his stomach and reached down toward her. “Come?” 

Cold fingers slid along his palm. Calloused, yet delicate. Such a small hand. Such a gentle touch. He lost himself in this feeling, and she pulled away. 

“Another time, Zevran,” she spoke breathlessly. “I’m not well.” 

He sat up with a deep sigh. “As my Warden wishes.” 

Her eyes wandered the darkness where she knew him to be. “You’re welcome to join me on the grass.”    


Too eager a yes, he dropped to the ground, landing on his feet and startling her. He laughed, delighting in her delicate palm laid flat on her chest.  _ Such a noblewoman.  _ Her arm lowered as she gathered herself; her shoulders squared, head held high. Zevran appreciated this habit of nobles. Their poise. Exuding confidence and relaxation with movement. 

“Glad you’re wearing a blanket.” Nyla moved toward the water, and he walked beside her.

“Mmhm. Warden suggested to keep warm. I am inclined to agree.” 

“I rather suspected you would wear less to spite me.” She sat on the grass with legs folded beneath her, and he sat beside her, her faithful mabari at her opposite side. “Or perhaps it’s part of your forgetting I’m not your master.” 

“Spiteful, sure. I can be. But I also like being warm.” He paused for a breath, and began carefully, “As far as I am concerned, Warden, you are the Master. I pledged myself to you, I am here until you release me from it.”

“The word ‘Master’ has such connotations…” She looked down at the ground. “I don’t want you to fear me. You have no reason to.” 

_ So soft.  _ He shook his head with a tsk, having no words; such sentiments would break her if she wasn’t careful. 

“I could have died today.” She spoke without betraying emotion, and he watched her; her gaze on the water, tongue flicking out to moisten dry lips, and Zevran wondered what it meant when she wouldn’t meet his eyes with her own. “I realize this is a possibility every day, but I’m sure thinking seriously about it now.”

She shuddered, and he reached out, rested his blanket on her shoulder to share. She looked at him with a warm smile; such a soft woman. 

“You were afraid, Warden?” 

“I feared for Alistair, and for you. And I mean no disrespect as I say this, but I don’t believe either of you are prepared to be without me.” 

“You’re right.” He leaned closer to her, to allow her more blanket. “I would be killed by Alistair before the Crows had the chance, I wager.” 

“That would be a possibility, I’m not pleased to say.” She rested her hand on his. “Though, I don’t believe it will always be a possibility.”

Momentarily distracted by the whisper of her touch on the back of his hand as he slowly withdrew it from hers, he replied, “Alistair’s logic for doing so would be sound. No fool, he.”

“And I am,” the Warden replied with a snort. 

“Warden said it first.” 

“Why am I the fool, as opposed to an excellent judge of character?” She giggled, snorting a few times. The snorting always delighted him, surprised him, as he always forgot it would happen. “You’re an asshole, Zevran.” 

“I am not inclined to disagree.” He smirked, and she inched closer, wrapping the blanket more snug around herself. The warmth of her shoulder touching his felt… just fine, and he let it be. Being with her became easier. 

“What would you do, Zev, should you be left to your own devices?” 

“I hadn’t thought about it.” Running a hand through his hair with a deep sigh, he met her dark eyes. “Parting seems too far away, and we will likely suffer gruesome deaths before the time comes.” 

“Would you go back to Antiva? Stay in Ferelden? Some other place?” She tilted her head at him. “Would you run further from Crows, or towards them?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Warden, I have no fucking idea. I suppose I would keep doing what I am good at. Surviving and assassinating.” 

“Ah.” She nodded, seemingly having no judgement. “You like that kind of thing, if I recall.” 

“Sometimes people just need to be assassinated.” Curious about her impartial nod, he asked, “Or do you disagree?”

Her smile became a sneer for just a moment, with a flicker of anger in her eyes. “I agree.” 

While having no idea what transgression had come about to draw such a reaction from this soft woman, he still found it difficult to deny being turned on by such fire - a fire she needed more of. Zevran nodded.

“I digress.” She shifted beneath the blanket, a few moments later holding up a small bar of gold in her palm and meeting his eyes again. “If you knew where you were going, you could sell this when you got there. So you lose nothing in the exchange. To make your coin last longer.”

Staring at the shining thing in her hand, he blinked rapidly, his brow furrowed.  _ What is this? A gift? Why? Where was she hiding it this whole time? Does she actually believe I haven’t been around enough to understand how currency works? Doesn’t she need this for her cause? Does she want me to leave?  _

“Zev?” She interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up at her again. Dark eyes on him, she bit her lip, seemed to be without words, or expecting him to say something.

“Do you wish me to leave?” With a keen ache in his chest, simultaneously hardening himself for her answer; an answer that would make sense and make him glad to see this soft creature free from the dangers of having him nearby.  _ But if I left, how would I protect her?  _ A double edged blade. 

“No.” She held the gold nearer to him, imploring him to take it. “I want you to stay, but if I die, I want you to run.” 

“Why?” He asked breathlessly, taking the gift from her open palm.

“So you survive.”

Why she would want him to run had an obvious answer. Looking out on the water, he didn’t have the wherewithal to clarify his question. 

“As for why I want you to stay…” she smiled when he looked back at her. It seemed she very much enjoyed his attentions. He enjoyed hers as well, and he could feel the mutual acknowledgement of it; the warmth of it, how natural it became over time. “That was your question to begin with, wasn’t it?” 

Zevran nodded, feeling the smoothness of gold that had begun to warm in his hand. 

“We need your help.” She swallowed, glancing away from him. “I’m not so proficient a fighter. The more I watch you the more obvious it becomes. I’m more the brains of this operation, if today has been any evidence.” 

A smart and practical answer. He breathed a sigh of relief to hear her acknowledge her shortcomings, though he suspected she compared herself too much to him. She was formidable, underselling herself, and he was not inclined to change her mind on the point if it kept him under her wing, or her beneath his. Apart from that, it was nice to be considered complimentary to their crew; he had never been _essential_ before, that he could recall. 

“And… here are the bits that make you squirm a little. I like having you around. You are quiet, but the times you speak, you have a way of…” she paused for thought. “You’re very clever.  I adore how you so elegantly get Wynne to shut her fucking mouth.” Nyla concluded almost inaudibly, “You’re delightful.”

Zevran chuckled for a moment, quickly replaced by a tingle in his nose, his lips pursed and quivered. This fucking Warden with her fucking gifts and openly sharing feelings and compliments, making  _ him _ feel things… he would not  _ cry.  _ Clearing his throat with a sigh he spoke coolly, “Silence is not my norm, Warden.”

Nudging him playfully, she purred, “Oh, I could only imagine the fun you will bring when you are better.”

He sighed, shrugged, asserting with an even tone, “Zevran is fine.”

Nyla shrugged to mimic his, smiled softly, meeting his eyes again. “You don’t have to be fine.”

_ I do! I am!  _ A full belly, well rested, uninjured… this was one of the  _ better  _ times. His mind whirled with her words, conflicting with what he knew to be true and he wasn’t inclined to argue the point or his reasons and his heart beat hard in his chest but he felt so alive and warm gazing into big, dark eyes- “Shut the fuck up, Warden.”

Surprisingly, she laughed hard at this. Giggling, snorting, leaning forward, then flopping over to lean on him, and then forward again; he watched in curiosity, listened in delight, and wondered what the fuck was going on. 

“Listen…” she took a deep breath, calming herself. She looked at him again, meeting his eyes, cheeks flushed. 

“I am.” 

“Imagine you are watching someone, yes? They have such soulful eyes, and you’re looking into them, anticipating their words. They take a breath, open their mouth and say… ‘Shut the fuck up.’” She giggled reached out and ruffled his hair. “You can’t help being delightful, it’s in your ah... it’s in your nature.” 

Nyla’s gaze flicked to his shoulder and back to his eyes, her laughter quickly tapered; something seemed to have startled the Warden, and he glanced at his own shoulder and back to her eyes with a questioning hum.

“May I?” She reached toward him when he nodded, and he sat still. Was there a spider on him, perhaps? Her fingers touched his hair. “Unevenly shorn. Cut with a blade.” 

His heart leaped and he reacted poorly, backing away from her touch with a gasp, betraying everything.

“It is common in some cultures for one to hold their hair as such.” A soft gaze on him, she placed a fist on the top of her head. “And then cut it, as an expression of-”

“Last year.” He interrupted her so she wouldn’t speak it.

“You’re grieving,” she whispered, speaking it any-fucking-way. “Is this part of what made you want to be away from your Crows?”

Where had his clever tongue gone? Why couldn’t he fight her off so easily as he did Wynne? So fucking disarmed, his heart hurt, he felt suffocated, cornered. 

“You don’t have to speak it,” she whispered, and he didn’t feel better for it. “I’m sorry. We can pretend I don’t know, if that is your wish.” 

How could he pretend she didn’t know? Her understanding, such soft words only made the ache more poignant; he didn’t deserve compassion for what he had done. Not hers. Not then. Not ever; the world a dream, containing nothing but big, dark, compassionate, all-consuming eyes, as if she fucking knew every-fucking-thing. 

“I’ve lost.” She continued at a whisper, “I don’t want to speak of it either.”

Understanding washed through him with a trembling breath; it only seemed she knew because she did. It seemed she felt his ache so keenly because it was akin to her own, and the compassion in her gaze was just the result of her feeling the same as he. 

Recognizing Nyla's smile as one to suppress the impulse to weep, he couldn’t recall feeling so close to another. “Warden?” 

“Zev?” Her smile became genuine, and she appeared eager to hear from him.

“Why do darkspawn carry coin?”


	5. Chapter 5

All of Ferelden looked the same to Zevran. Trees, mud… more mud. An unremarkable path here, distinct lack of path there, consistently chilly and overcast as if on the brink of a storm; overall, an uncomfortable place for an Antivan. Antiva had its mud and trees, but it had other things as well, like warmth and sunshine, and it didn’t consistently reek of dog. 

There was a lot of walking to be done, and for the first time in his life, the most prominent of Zevran’s problems were sore feet and muddy boots. He slept, he ate, and he had sore feet; how novel to have such a simplistic tale.

The Warden had far more problems, though she remained on an even keel for the most part. She had her moments of appearing to be under considerable strain, and oftentimes Zevran witnessed her hashing things out with Alistair, for example, she had only minutes ago finished a conversation with him about not wanting to  _ ‘waste time during a fucking blight looking for some goddam ashes,’ _ whatever that meant. It wasn’t Zevran’s business. He wasn’t even remotely curious.

Zevran took inventory of all present, as he tended to do during a long haul toward a destination. Sandal and Bodahn with their wares, Wynne taking rest on the back of their caravan, Leliana, Morrigan, Sten, the Wardens; it brought the assassin no small comfort to have a headcount.

“Zevran and I had a discussion.” Nyla stopped for a moment to drink from her waterskin. Dog, as per his usual, knocked into the backs of her calves as she stopped, and as per the Warden’s usual, her reaction was only a little compensatory stumble. “And as embarrassed as I am to admit I hadn’t asked myself the question before, I’d like more thoughts on the matter.”

“Hmm?” Zevran raised his brow and tilted his head at her.

“Why do darkspawn carry coin?” Nyla asked, and everyone stopped mid stride and stared at her with varying degrees of confusion on their faces. “Exactly.” 

“Maybe they are attracted to shiny things?” Leliana offered, and they all resumed walking. 

Nyla let out a snort and giggle. “Throwing confetti should be our newest battle tactic. Though, I shudder to imagine darkspawn having preferences or desires. They start to become too human, I start thinking about peace treaties instead of war.”

“It couldn’t be preference,” Alistair replied with a shake of his head and eyebrows lowering, and then one raising. “Come to think of it, where do they get  _ anything  _ they have? Maybe there’s a darkspawn town underground somewhere.” 

Leliana chuckled. “Darkspawn villages. I shudder to imagine the decor.” 

“Yes. They all hail from... Darkspawnia, where they have a very rich Darkspawnian culture.” Alistair giggled at his own joke. “On Tuesdays in Darkspawnia at the farmer’s market you can buy baked goods made from people. Men, women, redheads, blondes, brunettes, you see, all have distinctly different flavors.”  

Zevran laughed hard, Nyla side-eyed Alistair, seemingly suffering in withholding her own. 

“Gender, yes,” Zevran began. “Not so much hair color. I would know. I have had all kinds,”  he purred, keeping his eyes on the Warden. Pink blossomed on her smiling face; the Warden’s reaction to flirtation was never a disappointment; neither was Alistair’s glare.

“I’m not falling for that, Zevran,” Alistair replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know Antivans aren’t cannibals. I’m not  _ that _ naive.”

Raucous laughter spread through the group; even Morrigan let out a chuckle before falling back to her typical posture, folding her arms across her chest and looking sour. Sten, as always, either didn’t get it or didn’t care. 

“Did I miss something?” Alistair asked, sending the Warden into ridiculous laughter gone entirely to snorts, holding her middle, struggling to walk. 

Alistair, looking pleased with himself, intermittently giggled at her hysteria. Then the unthinkable happened; Alistair met Zevran’s eyes for just a moment, and winked before turning away.

There was something respectable about a man willing to set himself up to be the butt of a joke for the sake of making those around him happy; something Zevran and the handsome Warden had in common. Zevran’s eyes crinkled with his wide grin, delighted in being the only one included in the actual punchline. Alistair was actually turning out to be not so bad, though he was still hung up on the whole assassination thing.

“I suppose we would first have to know what darkspawn are,” Wynne began, and everyone calmed to offer her their attention. “Perhaps they used to be human and continue to carry what they had.”

Nyla shook her head. “People become ghouls, they don’t become darkspawn. We know that much.”

“What makes them become ghouls?” Zevran asked, followed by a hum of agreement from Leliana.

“I was about to ask the same.” 

Nyla rested a palm on her chest and drummed her fingers on her collarbone; a gesture, Zevran presumed, which told of how heavily something weighed on her heart. 

As the Warden walked along drumming her fingers on her collarbone, he stared at her with bated breath. The Wardens looked at each other for a few moments with grim faces; that didn’t feel too good either.

“I don’t know,” Nyla spoke softly as she looked at the ground and Alistair pointed his gaze forward.

_ That was a lie. _ Zevran pursed his lips and glared at the Warden. If they were going to outright lie, they shouldn’t have had a thousand tells. Glancing around, the others seemed to buy it, or not care, their eyes pointed at their path as they trudged forward. If there were a possibility of becoming ghouls, shouldn’t they know? How could Zevran  _ not  _ say something?

“Warden, a word?” Zevran asked. The Warden halted, Dog knocked into her calves. 

“Keep going, we’ll follow,” she instructed, and when they were a distance from them, Zevran decided to challenge her; from what he gathered, the Warden seemed to prefer a challenge, and insisted she was ‘not-Master’, this was a good a time as any to play with that.

“That was a lie,” Zevran asserted without judgement, and she nodded while meeting his eyes. “Is there a reason for the lie?” A hand reached toward him to rest on his forearm and he stepped away from her. “Stop with the hands all the time, Warden.”

“Sorry,” she spoke gently, folding her hands in front of herself and looking away from him with a flicker of something in her eyes that didn’t feel good to witness. “Thanks for saying so.”

“Okay.” Taken aback, he had no expectation for her reaction, but he hadn’t anticipated gratitude. It was a bit much for him to digest.  _ Soft, kind, gentle Warden. _ Weirder still, after she had acquiesced to his demand, after he understood the innocence behind her touch, it no longer felt like an invasion.

“Nobles don’t lay hands on each other, you know?” Nyla spoke with a chuckle, “I’m trying to learn to be… ah…”

“Common?”

“Yes.” Nyla nodded and counted out on her fingers as she spoke. “Among my new skills are touching, swearing and sometimes even slouching.” 

“You really need to work on that slouch.”

“I really do. But, I would hazard to guess,” she purred with her sly smile. “If I may?”

_ Here we go…  _ Zevran gave a questioning hum. For as annoying as her probing tended to be, it proved to be not so bad in the long run.  

“You are unaccustomed to your boundaries being respected.”

_ Not after a simple request, anyhow. _ “Perhaps. What of this ghoul business?” Staying on topic seemed to be difficult with this Warden.

“We only know it happens by being exposed to the blight. Blighted lands? Darkspawn blood? We’re unsure, and I didn’t want to leave everyone afraid of something we don’t know how to avoid.”

“Ah. Is there nothing to be done for one who...” he gestured with both palms facing upward, at a loss for words. “Becomes blighted?”

“Tainted,” Nyla corrected.  

“Ah. But you are tainted, no?” 

“It's different. Becoming a Warden requires the blood of an Archdemon, among other things.” 

The Warden had become tight lipped, and Zevran guessed she had revealed too much, or was about to. He didn’t care, given the information was useless to anyone without an Archdemon or the desire to become a Grey Warden. He only gave a simple response reflecting as much. “Fancy.”

Nyla smirked at him, and took him in with her dark eyes before looking away. “I have a flower that I know for sure cures a mabari. I have one for Dog, just in case.” 

Zevran chuckled, intending sarcasm. “Thank the Maker the mabari is safe.” 

“I do thank the Maker he is safe. He’s… you know.” Nyla looked away from Zevran with her lips set in a frown and brows drawn together. She shrugged, and Zevran wondered to what dark place her mind had wandered. “Imprinted on me when I was three years old.” 

No wonder the beast was called Dog, having been named by a toddler. He recalled very abruptly one of the first things he had learned about her;  _ last of the Couslands.  _ How had he forgotten that? Did her mabari account for one of those ‘last Couslands’? 

“Impressive, Warden. I have no relic from so many years ago.” He paused for thought, deliberating on whether or not he wanted to share anything with her. In that moment she looked so sullen, very far away. “Hmm?” Zevran inquired, and she pointedly ignored him, whipping a map from seemingly nowhere, unfolding it with a flick of her wrist and taking her time examining it.

Zevran learned something new about the Warden, though he acknowledged this could be an assumption: When her pains came to the forefront, she made herself busy.

“This way,” she called out in her throaty, noble tone, and everyone looked back at her, following as she deviated from the road. 

Zevran, being intimately familiar with darkness, the way it caught one in its clutches and often refused to let go, had a keen appreciation for one who might want to direct him from it, so he felt inclined to do as much for the Warden. “I had something once.” 

“You did?” Nyla asked him, subtly tilting her head with a lift of her noble chin. 

He smiled, nodded, glad the Warden could let go of the darkness so easily; it was a good skill to have, especially for one in her position. “A pair of Dalish leather gloves that belonged to my mother.” 

“Oh?” She asked with a chuckle. “Please tell the tragic tale of how you had lost them.” 

He smirked at her, feeling several things about being so predictable, and having someone around who would bother to predict him. “Not long after I was purchased from the whores-”

“Who purchased you from what whores?”

He hadn’t meant to go there, but okay. “Purchased by the Crows from the whores who raised me.”

She looked at him with her wide, dark eyes and then turned her attention to rolling up her map. “Is there a time in your life that isn’t rife with tragedy?”

He squinted at her; she assumed too much. “My life is not so tragic, just perhaps a far cry from being raised noble. I was among many raised communally by the whores. It was a happy enough existence, ignoring the occasional beating.” 

_ “Just _ beating?” She asked with connotations of doubt, slipping the rolled cloth map into her belt.

“Yes, just beating,” he replied, remembering how many times he had heard the words spoken from whore to patron,  _ ‘The children are not for sale.’  _ If he felt grateful for anything in life, it was definitely that. 

“How did you come to be raised by whores?”

The Warden was a curious one, and Zevran appreciated that as she learned about him, not one of the many shared things came back to bite him in the ass. Nyla was a good ear, not that he needed one.

“My Dalish mother, previous owner of the gloves I was attempting to tell you about, left her clan to be with an elven woodcutter from the city. And there, of course, the woodcutter died of some filthy disease and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts.”

“It’s interesting how you refer to them as ‘my mother’ and ‘the woodcutter’.” 

“I have no reverence for the man who placed no forethought into the fate of his family should something happen to him. He left her with child and in debt.” He felt his usual disgust as he shared. “Debt incurred by no innocent means, I would wager.”

The Warden was silent for a few moments. “And you would want something different for your own wife and child?”

“Of course,” he replied incredulously. “Why would I bother having a family just to set them up for failure?”

“Won’t you make a fine husband, someday,” she replied with a chuckle and a cheeky grin. 

Zevran shook his head. Crows, former or otherwise, would not make good parent figures or spouses. Not to mention any Crow to have a child only provided their house with free goods. Any Crow of a mind to delve into parenthood in the first place would be sorely disappointed to see the child taken from them.

“So, you knew your mother, then?” She asked, pulling him from his dark thoughts. 

“No. She, of course, died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were.” Before Nyla could translate her piteous stare into words, he continued. “The Crows bought me when I was seven or eight or so. I fetched a good price, so I hear.” 

Nyla scrubbed her forehead with her fingertips, sighed and looked up at him. “You were set on the path to being a prostitute, and then you lost all choice by being sold into slavery. Lovely.”

“It could have been much worse,” he rebutted with a shrug.  

“Zev, you can’t just call  _ less pain  _ a good thing.”

“Why not?” He had to admit a little frustration at this negativity she insisted on throwing; negativity he placed concentrated effort in keeping at bay. “Why do you insist I should hurt about things outside of my control?” 

“No, no. I’m not trying to do that.” She looked at her shoes and clasped her hands behind her back. “You can’t strive for better things if you simply fixate on having less pain. Not that I’m one to preach, going from noblewoman to Warden. As much as I try to learn new habits, often I don’t even know which habits or impulses I need to unlearn. Often I don’t even know what it takes to unlearn habits that no longer serve me. It’s a struggle. That is to say, you really have your work cut out for you.”

Zevran didn’t quite understand, but he had a looming sense that her words would keep him up at night. Having nothing to say on the matter, he finally dragged the conversation full circle. “Anyway, shortly after I joined the Crows, my mother’s gloves had eventually been discovered and taken away.” 

“That’s a shame,” Nyla replied with a soft smile. Her gaze flicked around, and Zevran looked around, wondering what had called her attention. “We’ll camp here.”  

 

***  


 

The Warden had left Zevran behind for this particular excursion, taking only Alistair and Dog with her.

Well, she  _ tried  _ to leave him behind. While Zevran didn’t argue with her instruction to hunt for food, he didn’t think it prudent she should wander into a city without more help; anything could happen. 

Denerim market square was small and smelled strongly of the sea; marginally less impoverished than Rialto, the city of his birth. If it was anything like Rialto, he could find plenty of trouble to get into within its back alleys. Plenty of fights to be had, plenty of coin to steal from its lurkers.

The Wardens went into what seemed a very simple residence. There was little purpose to hiding with the Wardens out of eyeshot, so Zevran wandered, the many children running about made him more aware of his pockets. The scent of mediocre food lingered on the air, its people far more pungent. He wondered what spices he could dredge up in this little market, if any. Then again, he had little coin apart from a bar of gold, which he had been instructed to use only upon the Warden’s demise. 

Zevran quickly bored of the unimpressive town square with it’s mediocre scented food and ‘fine dwarven crafts’. In another time, he may have found some enjoyment in its rustic novelty, but this place served only to remind him of the places he missed and would never see again.

_ “Dwarven crafts! Fine Dwarven crafts direct from Orzammar! You won’t find better!”  _

Why the dwarf kept shouting about his wares to the same handful of people was beyond him. 

He headed toward the Chantry, thinking better of attempting entry given two templars stood in front of its doors. The chanter’s board caught his attention and he gave it a cursory glance, his gaze landing on a portrait of the Warden; it didn’t do her justice.  _ Wanted for treason, indeed.  _ The one who should be charged with treason was the artist.  _ Her nose is quite proportional to her face, thank you very much.  _ He snagged it from the board and stuffed it in his hip pouch as he wandered back toward the door the Warden had disappeared behind. 

When the Wardens stepped outside, Zevran moved away from them and around a corner at a natural pace so not to attract any attention. Their voices grew louder as they walked in Zevran’s general direction, and he stayed very still as they stopped just around the corner. 

“I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn’t that what family is supposed to do?” 

“I can’t speak to that, darling, I’d never disappointed mine enough in order to find out,” Nyla replied softly. 

“I… I feel like a complete idiot.”

“You met her, you did what you had to do in order to move forward. I don’t see the idiocy in that.  Life hasn’t been easy for her and it’s left her embittered and… she’s not your problem. You do have others who care for you, if it’s any consolation.”

“Such as? The only one who’s ever cared about me was Duncan, and he’s gone.” 

Apparently it was unclear to Alistair that he had her affections, or the handsome Warden simply felt too sorry for himself to want to acknowledge it. Either way, it didn’t feel very good to imagine such affections unacknowledged. Nyla replied gently, though undertones of offence lingered in her voice, as if speaking something that should have been obvious. 

“Alistair,  _ I  _ care about you. Very much.” 

“Thank you,” Alistair replied, and he sounded surprised. “I’m glad you came with me. Let’s just go. I don’t want to talk anymore.”

Their moods seemed to plummet, each stuck in their own respective dark places as they headed toward the few market stalls. That’s when he noticed the Wardens had a tail; one that wasn’t himself. 

Zevran recognized them to be Leoncio and Gisella, a pair who had considered bidding for the Warden contract. Like many others, they had decided against it given its dangers, the distance required to travel, the political complications and possibility of killing off the only ones who could stop a blight from making its way across Thedas; morality once in awhile crossing a Crow’s mind is quickly dismissed if enough coin is offered. This meant Zevran’s failure had been acknowledged, but he had no way of knowing if his survival had been. 

Apart from Leoncio and Gisella casually perusing a vendor’s wares, he saw three others who appeared somewhat out of place, skulking about and looking busy. Their locations alluded to the presence of others, if Zevran knew anything about Crow tactics of surrounding a mark; five on the periphery of a target, with focus on each exit. The moment Alistair and Nyla left the market square, they would encounter an ambush of five to seven Crows. 

_ No use in troubling them with something I could easily handle on my own.  _ His eyes wandered to the places he might place another, and he spotted one crouched atop a building across the way. That would be his first mark, and would leave Zevran with a bird’s eye view of his former brothers in arms. 

Walking along the buildings, he kept the Wardens in his periphery. Nyla put on the most ridiculous looking helmet; leather and steel, with studded leather ear flaps and conical in shape. He hoped to the Maker he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his remaining days looking at such an accessory. Stepping in behind two women with linked arms, Zevran used them as cover as he passed by the Wardens and their would-be assassins. 

“You’re serious?” Alistair asked, his eyebrows lowering so far his eyes disappeared. 

“It fits over my hair. It’s efficient and comfortable. Does it look so bad?” 

“Don’t… don’t ask me that. What I’m getting at, is that we’ve seen several of these.”

“I’m not wearing a dead man’s sweaty helmet, Alistair,” Nyla replied in her haughty noble purr and a dismissive wave of a noble hand. “All scuffed up and bloodied from Maker only knows what transgressions.” 

But it was all fine and good for their comrades who had found minor improvements in their arms and armor from the dead; the preference to have new things was a noble habit she may have necessity to eventually unlearn. Zevran felt for her; he was accustomed to grungy hand-me-downs from dead brothers in arms. In fact, Zevran had never purchased anything apart from food, soap and the occasional luxury of an inn. As laughable as one might find the ways of a noblewoman, it was her way; she would learn.  

The two women Zevran had used as cover deviated from his intended direction, so he moved away from them in long strides across the open area and into a back alley. Decrepit wooden buildings were easiest to climb; plenty of places to grab. As he reached the top, he pulled himself up and crept toward one crouched low near the rooftop’s edge. All went smoothly until he stepped on a board that creaked, and the Crow turned to face Zevran, stepping on his own cloak and stumbling over into the alleyway. Such was Zevran’s luck, peering over the edge to see the man stare up at him through dead eyes, already hidden behind a bunch of crates; satisfying and unsatisfying at the same time. 

From his new station on the roof, Zevran crouched down as the dead had; with luck, they would still believe their plan would proceed without a hitch. From his vantage point, Zevran saw the Warden turn and mindlessly saunter directly into Gisella, and then quickly back away just to trip over her mabari. Zevran palmed his face; they had no intent to kill her in plain sight or they would have attempted already, so this particular occurrence had the liberty of being hilarious. 

As soon as Alistair helped her up, the Warden strode toward the next stall with her chin in the air, chuckling at her own bullshit while dusting off her ass; Alistair’s gaze was not too shy to watch those noble hands in motion.

Wardens milling about, Alistair served as a willing pack mule for Nyla’s several purchases. Zevran held them in his periphery while keeping their would be assassins within his line of sight, the anticipation of a pending battle giving him a rush of excitement as the Wardens headed for the main entrance. 

Gisella’s hand signal was apparently the removal of her hood, as the moment she did so, her men mobilized, and Zevran followed suit, using his common sense in what he knew of strategy to head toward the unwitting Wardens. He had to be careful; any suspect of something amiss in their plan would urge them to carry it out faster, even at the possible expense of each other. He had to rely on his prediction of Crows; they wouldn’t pay Zevran any mind, as they had their own roles to fulfill in this ambush. 

This was fun, being on the Warden’s side while pretending to be an ally of Crows while having to hide himself from both parties; this could get several levels of messy. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

If ever Zevran were to recount the tale of the time he spared the Warden a Crow ambush, which he would not, he would omit nothing. He would generously embroider every detail. It was fun. It was daring. It went kind of exactly how he wanted.  

The first kill was always easiest when fighting a group, the rest requiring thought and a  _ plan,  _ which happened to be Zevran’s weakest point. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t plan, but it seemed dull, and dull things were just… inappropriate. He far preferred the rush of improvisation.

The first kill cried out right before he died, his scream tapering into the satisfying gurgle of his throat having been cut. Zevran found the sounds of death disturbing, first he heard them. Then they became something he could tune out. Then they became the sounds of success, a job well done, surviving another day, and coin. Thankfully, it was a sound which eluded the Wardens, and likely the comrades of the dead.

Part of working with Crows in a party of five or more was to keep your eye on the target, no matter what happened to another. With the potential warning from the first kill, they would likely pick up their pace, which often resulted in some clumsiness. Which was good, but it didn’t change Zevran’s very loosely-planned plans to kill them. He would just kill them faster. 

Zevran heard hurried footfalls and hid behind a tree, letting out a giggle as his next target tripped over the first. So dumb. So hilarious. A simple blunder with the price of a blade between the shoulders and a quickly snapped neck. It didn’t stop being hilarious, and Zevran withheld his giggles as he dropped low to the ground, the Wardens having stopped walking to look behind them, their eyes scanning the tree line.

“What?” Nyla asked. “Why are you stopping?” 

“Did you hear something?” Alistair inquired while rearranging the parcels in his arms. 

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” 

They turned around to keep walking, and one of Zev’s former sisters-in-arms ran in for the kill, making a beeline for Nyla. This Crow clearly had no sense of self preservation; Alistair would have likely slain her with a quickness. With a brief sprint, Zevran flung himself at the attacker and they tumbled into the brush skidding along the dirt and into a tree which did nothing pleasant for Zevran’s back. After a quick fist to her face to shut her up and send her nose into her brain, he was on the prowl again. 

Four down, one to go. He was good with numbers. Tracking the number of the living and dead kept things in order enough for him to plan moment to moment, and adjust accordingly. 

“I know I heard something,” Alistair spoke, stopping to look behind him. 

“It’s Dog,” she replied, still walking on. “He likes to run around and such while we walk, if you recall.”

Zevran had forgotten about Dog until she had mentioned him. He peered around to discover the beast standing a short distance behind him with a furrowed brow and a distinct frown. This mabari could be quite stealthy if he wanted to be, and the faces he made were so easy to humanize. He wondered how a mabari learned to express emotions as such. Through humans, he would wager, but did mabari facially express emotions so elaborately to each other as well? 

Zevran let out an exasperated sigh and whispered to his canine friend, “I am looking for one more.”  

Dog bolted off across the path and Alistair turned around again. “Oh, there he goes.” 

“Told you,” Nyla replied in her noble tone. “Are you quite well?” 

“I feel like we’re being followed.” He elbowed her gently in response to her snorty giggle. “I meant followed by something other than a mabari.” 

The moment they both had their backs toward him, Zevran leaped across the path, trying to mimic as best he could the leaping tromp of a mabari. It was close enough. It wasn’t as if they would accuse Dog of tromping wrong. 

As Zevran entered the shelter of many ferns, he came upon the mabari with a woman’s head in his mouth. 

“Put that down,” he hissed in annoyance, wondering how a mabari decapitated a person, and how he knew he should. Zevran had seen plenty of gore in his time, but even he had his limits. Usually those limits included decapitated heads or removed eyeballs. “Just… get that out of your mouth.” 

As he dropped the head, Dog’s maw and chest were smattered with blood. Zevran wondered briefly how to clean up such evidence, only to realize it wasn’t his problem to prove that Dog hadn’t been up to no good.    
  
“Good luck with that,” he whispered, pointing at the mabari’s blood-spattered chest. Dog rolled his eyes with a what sounded like a chuckle and bounded away. Mabari were fun. How had he gone so long without a mabari in his life? 

Zevran sat down for a moment to catch his breath, and in seeing a decapitated head in his periphery, turned his back toward it. Some enjoyed taking a moment to look at their handiwork. It wasn’t his thing. 

Killing his former brothers and sisters-in-arms felt the same as killing darkspawn. Disposable tools of little value. Something the world would probably be better without.

He looked down at himself. No blood, apart from being scuffed a little from the dirt-rolling and tree collisions. He was able to dust himself off sufficiently, and the Warden couldn’t possibly ascertain the newness of his scuffs and bruises. Even if she noticed, it wouldn’t be hard to explain. The Warden knew he spent plenty of time in trees. It would be a blow to the ego to say he had fallen from one, but it would spare him explaining he had followed her all the way to Denerim and all that entailed. 

He made his way back to camp by continuing to tail the Wardens, staying several paces behind and then creeping from the woodwork to settle by the campfire. No one noticed his arrival apart from Leliana, who gave him a smile and nod as she went toward her tent. 

“What’s this?” Nyla spoke, and Zevran watched her just on the outskirts of their camp, bend down. “My good boy caught us a nice, fat rabbit!” She spoke in the special voice she used for Dog praises. “You got a little messy, but this atones for it. Oh, don’t pout. You’re still my  _ very _ good boy.” 

She sat on her knees and continued to coo at the clever little shit while scratching his belly. Zevran withheld the urge to palm his face; Nyla’s instructions upon her leaving were for him to hunt. Caught up in the adventure of Denerim and the thrill of killing his former brothers in arms, he had completely forgotten. He couldn’t regret it; if he had chosen otherwise, the Wardens may have been found dead on the road. 

“Have you found anything during your hunting ventures, Zev?” Nyla spoke with a smile, approaching Zevran as Alistair unburdened himself of their purchases. 

Shaking his head no, he met her eyes again. She was wearing that ridiculous, conical helmet, and it lightened the blow of her disappointed stare.

“Did you even try to hunt?” She asked, her brow furrowed. Zevran had no response, unable to find what it took to lie to those dark, disappointed eyes. “Do I really need to give you a talk about working alongside others and contributing?” 

“No, Warden,” he replied coolly, picking up his bow. “This is enough for me to understand better. I will do better.”    
  
She said nothing, then. Just walked away with a placid face, likely hiding a not-so-good feeling of mistrusting him. Soft Warden hadn’t punished him, offering only a gentle scolding which felt good, in a way. In any case, he  would make up for his failure somehow. 

 

*******

 

He did make it up to her, catching a fawn, which he cleaned with a quickness and even offered to cook.  _ ‘Not yet,’  _ she had replied, and Zevran took it to mean he was not yet trusted. She wasn’t harsh about it, in fact, smiled as she said it. As if his feelings would be hurt by this thing which would make perfect sense. He appreciated her efforts. Gentleness was not something easily come by in his world. 

It was well into nighttime when they finally ate, each taking food at their leisure and going their separate ways. The Warden looked over maps, spoke to others, making her usual rounds. Zevran had come to know by then, the Warden often ate right before bed. While he didn’t really know why she waited so long to take her meal, he hypothesized that it may have been because she didn’t like to slow down, busybody that she was. 

Zevran, having done everything he could think to do, was quite bored. Boredom was surprisingly commonplace in a Crow’s life: stalking, tracking, waiting for the mark. Still, he struggled to find more to do; help the Master instead of being idle in front of the her.

If he could get the Warden’s armor off of her, he could clean it for her. He could think of many things to do with an armorless Warden. He let his mind wander to entertaining places, though, if he were being honest, he could do with anyone without armor; it had been a while. 

Nyla ran from Leliana’s tent, laugh-snorting, slinking along as if up to no good. 

_ “It’s annoying!”  _

“That’s not a feeling,” Nyla replied, unsuccessfully dodging a stick thrown by their lovely, ginger bard. 

“I’m obviously fucking annoyed!” Leliana laughed and picked up a stick. 

Holding her arms up to block, Nyla asserted through a giggle, “But you seem so happy!” 

“Get out of my  _ life!”  _ Leliana punctuated her last word with a hard throw which hit its mark, provoking a mock, noble gasp of incredulity from her target.  

“How  _ dare _ you.” 

They threw sticks and small stones at each other, Dog running up to join them while holding a small branch in his teeth, his hind end wiggling. Watching the scene with a smile, Zevran didn’t miss Leliana’s dampened, red-rimmed eyes, as if she had been weeping, or perhaps it was from her raucous laughter. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn the Warden had given her much-needed comfort, and also something to laugh about. Soft Warden. Where had she learned to be so soft? Most nobles were cold and aloof. Something must have knocked the soft Warden from her high horse. 

He was curious about her, having many questions he didn’t feel he had permission to ask. She had left her questions about his past to a minimum, so he treated her the same, assuming it was what she wanted. She did pry, but more often about the present than the past. 

The women ceased their playing, parting ways after Leliana pulled her into a hug. The Warden seemed unpracticed at surprise hugs, but she didn’t react as badly as Zevran may have. Her arms flailed about for a moment before trying to figure out where to put her hands, settling on laying them flat on Leliana’s back. 

Nyla’s awkwardness and reluctant acceptance of things foreign to her was comical. It appeared, if Zevran were to guess, she placed significant effort into accepting gestures others asserted as normal - such as an abrupt and firm embrace from a jovial comrade.

Zevran sat in his space by the fire - delegated as such because it was a short distance in front of his tent - and hoped for more hijinks to unfold. Nyla remained the center of his attention, after all, she was the Master. 

Leliana sat at the entrance to her tent, strumming her lute in a very quiet manner, tuning and picking at her leisure. Wynne, as always, was either reading or knitting in her tent. Morrigan, as always, was by her own little campsite not far from theirs, but far enough to make her desire for solitude clear. Dog was asleep on his back with all fours in the air. Bodahn and his boy were bustling around their caravan, and Sten, as always, was quiet and easy to forget about, until his large and imposing form lumbered past, which it rarely did. He could often be found sharpening something, if one were of a mind to seek him out. 

Alistair crouched down beside the fire, a more than respectful distance away from Zevran, but not so far away words couldn’t be shared. 

“Hello, handsome,” Zevran purred, entertained by the roll of Alistair’s eyes, and then the scrunch of his expressive eyebrows. 

“You know…” Alistair began in an annoyed tone, tucking one leg beneath himself, the other bent at the knee, foot flat on the ground. He turned his head to look directly at Zevran and spoke with a wink in a sultry tone, “Hello there.”

The jest, so unexpected, had Zevran toss his head back in a delighted guffaw. He hadn’t thought this far into the conversation. He had expected to have chased the handsome Warden off. He had no rebuttal; a rare occurrence. 

“You can dish it out but not take it?” Alistair asked with a chuckle. 

“Apparently,” Zevran replied with a smile, letting his amusement show. They met eyes again, and Zevran felt more at ease with Alistair, wondering if this was an attempt at following the Warden’s orders to befriend him.

Their attention snapped toward the Warden Nyla, making her way toward Bodahn and his boy.

“Uh oh. She’s headed toward Bodahn.” Alistair chuckled. “She always has this… cute frown with her eyebrows doing that thing where they’re furrowed but not really. Just sort of… the space between her eyes wrinkles. It’s very furrowy, but subtle.”

Zevran smirked at the man. He had to disagree. That was not a cute face. She pouted, that was cute. Sad or angry Warden eluded him as cute. “Does she, now?” 

“Yes. I call it her  _ ‘I just spoke with Bodahn’ _ face. Anyway… prepare for that and the mood that comes with it.” 

Zevran knew to expect as much, given he watched her just as closely. His own reasoning was clear; tracking the Master’s mood. Alistair watched her because of… romantic interest, or affection. Whatever word one used, Alistair  _ wanted  _ her. It was clear they wanted each other, even if they were going rather slow about it. If Zevran wanted her in his tent, which was a pointless musing because he wanted almost everyone in his tent, he’d have already made his intent clear. It was fun to witness their awkward push and pull as they somehow had difficulty in gauging the other’s interest.

“You watch her rather closely,” Alistair spoke, toying with his fingernail. 

“Do I?” Zevran pulled his eyes off of Nyla to look back toward the handsome Warden, who had an implicit question in his gaze. Did he believe Zevran also had romantic interest? “One must pass the time with something, no? Why not use this time to look at a lovely woman?”

It was meant as a jest, but Alistair only sighed and briefly scratched his forehead with his thumbnail. 

“Umm… I do see you speaking among yourselves… rather quietly… sometimes even laughing or… with your eyes…” he made a gesture with his hand, two fingers pointed to his own eyes, then to Zevran’s. “Very… intimate.” 

This was no offer of friendship after all. Alistair saw him as a threat, and needed to talk it out. While Zevran found such insecurity obnoxious, there was an endearing quality to it. Poor fool of a boy. So obnoxiously innocent in his particular way.

Not that Zevran were any expert in matters of the heart, he still understood when something important was happening. This was important to Alistair, and the teasing could begin later. It  _ would  _ begin later. 

Zevran responded with something rational, since the young man apparently could not be. “The Warden is this way with everyone, is she not?” 

“Kind of?” Alistair thought for a few moments, staring pensively into the fire. “I suppose she is.” 

It was a simple answer, and Zevran didn’t care to pry; he didn’t mind something that wasn’t his business going over his head. The Wardens either became more romantically involved, or they did not. It was entertaining to watch them try, at any rate. 

“Why do you ask, handsome Warden?” The teasing could begin. It was both appropriate and inappropriate enough a time for it. “You believe I could steal her away?” 

“Kind of,” he mumbled, his eyes pointed at the ground, ruining Zevran’s teasing, killing the teasing mood. 

“Alistair,” he began with a sigh, leaning back, palms flat on the ground to prop himself up. “I am pursuing nothing, and she is a woman making her own choices. I do not seem to be her choice.” 

“But you  _ would  _ go for it, if you were her choice.” 

Again with the insecurities. Was this what love was? Jealousy and paranoia? That wasn’t what he would want if he were involved with someone as such, which he would never be. 

“You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t kick anyone out of my tent.” 

“True,” Alistair replied with a thoughtful nod.

That wasn’t true, but Zevran rather liked to let people believe he was far more promiscuous than in reality. He had certainly been around the block several times, but not to the extent that he let on. He was the seducer, but seduction didn’t always precede sex. If his desire met a certain criteria, he may indulge in someone, target or no. The criteria being, a certain something that was... a feeling of its own. It was there. He took pleasures where he could find them.

“I certainly wouldn’t kick you out of my tent,” Zevran purred, leaning toward him with his most lurid of stares. “Would you like to join me in my tent?” 

“Nooo?” Alistair replied with what sounded like a question, his brow somehow furrowed and also raised. “Half the time I just don't know if  you're being serious, and you can be really, really creepy sometimes.” 

“I know this.” Resuming his normal, relaxed face and posture, he shrugged. “It is one of my many skills. Somehow comes quite naturally to me.” 

Alistair’s chuckle was satisfying to hear. “Could you use it to chase off those unwanted suitors? Asking for a friend.”

“Hm?” Zevran inquired with a hum. “What unwanted suitors?” It did sound like something he would say, and he would have gladly fended off these unwanted suitors.

“I’m not surprised you don’t remember, what with your head having been booted and all.” Alistair began with a chuckle, looking wistful as he began his tale. “When we first met you, you said... uh oh.” 

“I thought I left that internal,” he replied, though he also saw the Warden walking away from Bodhan, but she did not have her usual  _ ‘I just spoke with Bodahn’  _ face.

She looked furious, stalking toward them, tension held in her lithe form, around her eyes and jaw. Alistair hopped up to greet her. Zevran also felt this urgency Alistair exhibited, but he didn’t react as such. He remained seated, waiting for the Warden to instruct him otherwise. 

“What’s-”   
  
“Not now, Alistair,” Nyla grumbled, and it was actually a scary and solid command. She breezed past them, her eyes never leaving their hard stare forward. Dog hopped up from where Zevran had thought him fast asleep, and trotted after her. 

Alistair’s eyebrows climbed as he looked toward Zevran, pointing in her direction.

“So bossy,” Zevran jested, though he felt Nyla’s ire just as keenly as the handsome Warden’s face implied. 

Alistair’s internal struggle played itself outward as he paced toward her, back to Zevran, took a step toward her again and then bit his knuckle. 

“Definitely follow her,” Zevran spoke seriously, though he found it all pretty hilarious. He wondered if Alistair reacted so dramatically every time he met someone’s ire, or just hers. Be it the former, the man needed to grow more spine than Zevran originally thought. Not that he cared. 

Alistair nodded with a sigh, a large hand scrubbing over his hair as he turned and jogged in the direction the Warden had gone. 

Zevran wasn’t going to sit this one out either. He wanted to know what had the Warden so ruffled. He could have asked Bodhan, but following was far more interesting. He stood, and casually wandered toward them.

He didn’t know where they had run off to, just followed the path of tamped grass and disturbed foliage, and eventually, the sounds of their voices.

“I don’t know what to say, Alistair. When I said… whatever I said to you, I didn’t mean I wanted you to follow me.” 

While Zevran believed her, he didn’t believe she knew what she needed in her moment of duress. 

“You can’t tell me you want me to help and then not let me help.” Alistair’s voice was firm, as if speaking words he undoubtedly stood behind, and it got through to the Warden.

“Bodhan gathered news for us in his travels to Denerim.” Her tone was low, but her voice wavered. “Lothering is gone.”

“We knew that was going to happen.”

“That doesn’t make this easier. It’s been said the darkspawn took prisoners.” 

“ _ What? _ Is that real?” Alistair’s surprised tone rung out, his hands raising to express as much. 

“I have the same fucking question. I want to take for granted that it is true, and watch our friends that much more closely. Alistair,  _ Lothering _ has been burnt to the ground. One of the largest trading posts-” her hands clutched her head for a few moments and she continued in her frustrated tone. “How much are they going to destroy before we can stop them? How much will we have to rebuild? Westhills has been hit hard by darkspawn, and the fucking infighting between Loghain and all the bannorns… we are  _ alone,  _ Alistair. We’re alone in this, and the only thing we have is…” she gestured in the direction of camp. “Are we supposed to do this through sheer fucking will? What pieces will be left of our homeland even if we succeed?”

Zevran had those questions as well. He wouldn’t mind understanding what darkspawn were, why they wanted everything broken, and everyone dead. 

“Slow down,” Alistair replied in a firm and gentle tone. “We’re making progress. We have the support of the mages, support from Redcliffe, we still have the other treaties-”

“The Brecillian Forest is supposedly overrun with werewolves, by the by.”

“Okay, werewolves? The fuck? Is that real?” 

“I don’t know! We’ll approach it as if it is. Apart from that, Orzammar is at a standstill in appointing a new king, for some bloody reason. I wouldn’t expect them to adhere to a treaty from sixteen fucking generations ago in the best of times, nevermind while having to deal with political unrest. I suppose we’ll go over there, fucking fix it, and  _ hope  _ they will agree without a fight.” 

“The treaties have worked so far,” Alistair reminded her, but it didn’t seem to throw her off of her dark musings. “They will agree to it.”

“You bet your ass they will. Especially after wasting so much time fixing their…  _ fuckery, _ in order to convince them to adhere to them. Then there’s the…” Trembling hands reached up and she clutched her head for a few moments before looking back up at Alistair.  _ “Howe! _ Rendon  _ fucking _ Howe. As if the loss of my house isn’t enough treachery, I keep hearing the shit he’s doing, and with the infighting nothing will be done about it. I won’t even go into what he’s done to Denerim’s alienage and I’m supposed to just turn a blind eye and continue on with this overarching  _ blight  _ problem, which I consider a priority while nobody else of any importance believes it’s real.” 

Zevran closed his eyes for a moment, wondering the details of ‘losing her house’. Wondering if she had lost her literal home, or her station. It was clearly Howe’s doing, but the details were very vague, and piqued his curiosity. If he were to guess, it had something to do with the loss she hadn’t wanted to speak of.

“Slow down,” Alistair spoke gently, compassion in his stare. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

“I am  _ not  _ okay,” she growled with a pointed finger. 

“You  _ have _ to be okay,” Alistair spoke firmly, and Zevran pointed his gaze at the ground, wishing Alistair would give her what she had given him some nights ago. 

Nyla told Zevran he didn’t have to be okay. It hurt and shocked him at first, then it soothed him, helped him settle into the pain of the moment, let it wash over him until he felt genuine okayness. She told him exactly what he needed to hear; to accept what was. Zevran wondered if she would find some semblance of peace within it as well, or if she truly needed to hear what Alistair offered. 

There would be no peace for the soft Warden. Instead, she stared wide eyed with horror at what was only a small chance at the preservation of her homeland… rather, what would be left of it even if the blight ended. 

“Okay,” Nyla spoke, followed by a trembling breath, running a shaking hand over her hair, pacing. “Okay. I’m okay. I need to plan. We need to get to the Brecillian. We’ll leave tomorrow.”   

“There is still the matter of Arl Eamon,” Alistair replied, and Zevran put serious consideration into knocking him out with the strategic throw of a stone. He wondered again why there was no gentleness for the gentle Warden. 

“I told you,” she began, sounding as frustrated as Zevran felt, “I am not going to chase the goddam mythical ashes while my country goes to utter shit. It’s a waste of time, and we don’t need Eamon.”

“We need Eamon at the landsmeet. We need to-”   
  
“I  have more rights to the throne than he does,” she growled, pointing a stern finger at him. “The throne will be mine, with or without him.” 

So, she planned to be queen after saving the world. Zevran always found empowered women so very sexy. 

“It won’t work,” Alistair replied, his tonality dark and sad. “Because-”

“Because I’m a woman? Or because you are too much of a coward to stand by my side and do your duty as only heir to the throne?” 

A low blow, but one Alistair may have needed. The Warden didn’t seem to be the type to hurl insults for fun. And Alistair was a prince! Well, he sure looked like one. 

There was a long bout of silence, Nyla pacing with fists clenched and arms stiff by her sides. Alistair just stared at her, unreadable apart from looking tired. 

“I never said I wouldn’t,” he replied softly, breaking their silence. “Is it so wrong of me to prefer to choose my own path? To not be cornered into this thing I don’t know if I even want?”

“Duty first.” She had no compassion in her voice, only insistence. “You should want to do your duty.” 

“I do,” Alistair whispered, and Nyla stopped her pacing, her shoulders relaxing. “I just... wish things could be different, sometimes.” 

When these two spoke, they apparently left no ground uncovered. 

“I know.” Nyla’s voice had become gentle again, and she stood in front of him, looking up at him with her big, dark, glistening eyes. 

“We need Eamon. Not because you and I couldn’t take the throne, but because there might not be a you and I left to take it.” 

Alistair rested a hand on his hip, one hand ran over his hair and he stared at the ground. These were nervous gestures, perhaps withholding something, or telling a lie. If the Warden weren’t so distressed, Zevran imagined she would have inquired. 

“You’re right,” she whispered, sniffling and wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “There would be too much dissent for Anora to hold the throne without him. She would need the support.”

Alistair nodded. “It’s sad, but it’s the state of things right now. They’d never let her keep the throne, and there would be more infighting.”

“Yes. This makes sense.” She followed with a deep sigh, her fists unclenching. “Eamon is a contingency plan.”

“Yes,” Alistair breathed, his eyes downcast. This boy knew something, and Zevran wished the Warden would snap out of it and inquire. “It’s not because I don’t want to be king at your side.” 

Marriage between them, even though they hadn’t even become lovers. That’s what these noble types did, if Zevran wasn’t mistaken. He still stood by his opinion that they should go for it. They clearly hadn’t. Zevran would absolutely have noticed. So much tension. They could really use such a relaxing distraction. 

Zevran found himself drawn into their plight, feeling their pains, considering ways to help, and then feeling helpless. The moment he recognized it, he turned that shit off. It wasn’t his business. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. 

  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

Fatigue gave way to quietude, and there were plenty of musings to be had while they walked and walked and fucking _walked._ Zevran couldn’t complain; the Warden had done far more than she asked of anyone. 

Horses would have been nice, but they weren’t so common in Ferelden as in other parts of Thedas... likely because they didn’t want to waste valuable mabari space. 

After vehemently denying the possibility of the existence of the ‘goddamn ashes’, Nyla found evidence, or a lead, or… whatever she did. Her tendency to be inclusive seemed to dwindle, and Zevran considered himself in no position to question anything; or maybe he was, and didn’t care. In any case, they were headed back toward Kinloch Hold, from where they had just come. 

There was a blight, and they were walking. Walking, and more walking. Zevran shared in the Warden’s frustration. 

On the forefront of Zevran’s mind was why the Warden hadn’t punished him for forgetting to hunt, a few nights prior. Even as Nyla had approached him, there was no underlying fear of her wrath, only the desire to never have disappointed her. He also wondered why her lack of punishment hadn’t come as a surprise to him. 

“Darkspawn,” Alistair spoke in his serious tone, sword and shield readied as Bodahn and his Boy made themselves scarce. 

All present drew weapons, taking their typical formation behind Alistair, who positioned himself toward where he sensed the darkspawn approaching. A nice skill to have, for sure. Any edge they could get against foes of indeterminate skill was good.

 The first of darkspawn roars echoed around them, and Zevran waited for Alistair to lead the charge, his attention-grabbing battle cry echoing through the trees with a fierceness. Alistair had great battle cries. The Warden’s was more of a bellow; a gruff sound from deep within her chest, much deeper than her speaking voice. Very good, but not so cool as Alistair’s.  

Nyla was the Master, but a kind one; unheard of in Zevran’s history, but not inconceivable. Knowing he had wronged her, she had walked up to him, and he felt no fear. This was a new thing. He had no idea what to make of it. It utterly wowed him that he hadn’t expected some form of punishment. 

“Zev! On the left!” Nyla’s urgent hollar carried to him, and he felt the need to bend low, seeing her body shift subtly as if she could move him from where she stood. It wasn’t the best of signals. Good thing he was so perceptive. Leliana felled the beast with an arrow, nocked another and sought a target. Zevran moved on to the next monster, positioning his back toward the Wardens nearby, holding formation. It was an uncomfortable formation, having his own back turned toward comrades, but he pressed through this discomfort easily enough.   

Zevran wondered why he hadn’t followed Nyla’s orders to go hunting in the first place. Did he truly need the firm hand of his former masters in order to follow orders? He shuddered to think how many times Nyla would let him deviate before she approached him with a heavier hand. If Zevran were to guess, she wouldn’t do anything but display that disappointed stare with those big, dark, weaponized eyes. Perhaps soft Warden was too soft, and he needed to be a better, more mindful servant to her. 

Zevran’s blade pierced flesh, blood spilled, his victim roared out its death throes; darkspawn remained horrifying, especially when a dozen or so surrounded. 

Zevran had never wanted so badly to be of service, hoping Nyla would ask anything of him, and despite that, he still managed to not do the thing she asked him to do. Maybe she knew he would follow her to Denerim, and was testing his obedience. Maybe she knew about the Crows. Maybe she knew everything, set him up to disobey her, and was accumulating a list of his wrongdoings to justify her eventual wrath. 

He realized again that he was paranoid, fucking with himself, and had another glimpse of how much power his Crow training truly had over him. The Crows, in a way, still owned him. Interesting, how he still bore the habit of touting the greatness of Crows even as he resented them. 

These particular darkspawn were more skilled, seemed to take more effort than the last. Having experienced many fights of varying lengths and intensities, Zevran wagered their company would exhaust soon. 

“Leliana! Healer!” Alistair called out, and she loosed her arrow, catching it in its shoulder. Watching her from the corner of his eye, Zevran saw Leliana follow up with an acrobatic feat, using a darkspawn corpse as a step to leap higher into the air, onto the back of one falling, and immediately firing an arrow into the healer’s eye. Maker forbid something disrupt that woman’s line of sight, as she would apparently shift the world to get it back. 

The Crows, in a way, still owned him. He still expected the things he had only just learned were abnormal. He did have a good life, but he hadn’t known better. His new life, Blight and all, was somehow better than than his Crow life. A nice side-effect of being away from home; less threats, less fear, more ease in being. Good shit. 

He didn’t understand all the nuances of his new life’s betterness yet, he just knew he felt more at ease. Even as he fought horrifying creatures he could never have imagined, he felt more at ease. Life had always been difficult and enjoyable at the same time, but somehow his blight-life seemed to be better than the one he had. 

Zevran’s gaze flicked around for his next target, seeing Wynne send her magics toward Sten who let go of his bloodied arm and pushed forward. Sten was quite a warrior. Skilled with a blade. Large and imposing. Zevran wished he could take a few moments to watch him in action, but he had his own urgent business to attend. 

It was difficult for Zevran to pick apart the nuances of the betterness of his new life, because there was just as much work and even more danger. Feelings, and lack thereof, seemed to indicate as much. He still felt like the outsider; perhaps this betterness was all in his head. What wisdom might the Warden throw at him in such a moment? Probably something smart, like he needed to slow down and let himself adjust; she was such a wise and detrimentally soft Master. 

“We’re losing ground!” Nyla’s urgent call carried, and Zevran’s attention snapped to her; he would know how her face had come to be so bloodied if his attention hadn’t strayed so far from her. 

“No we’re not,” Morrigan asserted from Zevran’s periphery, earning his full attention as she started to grow in size. Watching Spider-Morrigan come to be seemed to take significantly longer than the few moments it actually took. 

They all watched Spider-Morrigan tear each beast limb from limb. Darkspawn began to flee, and she pursued. The sounds of bone and sinew being torn apart surrounded them in a wild cacophony of disturbing proportions. Glancing at his comrades, their mouths hung open, staring at the fray with an awe that Zevran found relatable, however, ill timed. Were they really going to just watch Spider-Morrigan do all the fighting for them? Upon asking himself the question, Zevran decided staying out of her way was the wisest course of action. 

“Holy… shit... fuck,” Nyla breathed, and they all made a disgusted groan and shied away from a rather intense splatter of carnage. 

Dog, who always had the best, most unpredictable reactions, seemed to be cheering for the witch; bellowing and howling, crouching low on his fronts with hind end wiggling. This made Zevran laugh, which had the Warden look at him in abject confusion as the ruckus subsided. 

“Okay, you can un-spider now,” Alistair spoke with urgency, foregoing any amount of thanks on the Witch’s behalf. 

“Zev... I know you’re prone to cackling amidst battle, but I have no reckoning of what you found so hilarious.” Nyla’s haughty, noble tonality coming from this battered and bloodied soldier with that ridiculous, conical helmet askew caught him off guard, and more chuckles bubbled up from him. 

“You look like shit, Warden.” 

“Likewise. Are you quite well?” Nyla asked, and her tone had changed. The confusion had left her gaze, and her eyes mimicked the softness of her tone. 

“You’re welcome,” Morrigan spoke, words thick with her usual disgust. She approached them while cleaning herself of various types of viscera from her person as if such a state were a common occurrence. No big deal. Just covered in innards. In any case, she deserved an excessive amount of thanks, but eyes remained on him. 

Zevran wondered what was wrong with Nyla, who’s attention remained on _him_ with an inquiry about his emotional state. When his vision wavered a little, he realized she was actually talking about practical matters for once. He would have liked to communicate an injury, but generally his everything hurt, and he was accustomed to tuning it all out until he could find somewhere safe to tend to his own wounds. 

_“Wynne!?”_ Went the Warden. 

_“I’ve got him…”_ Went the handsome Warden. 

It wasn’t typical of him to mistake his injuries for than less than they were, however, he had been fairly distracted. _Whoops,_ was his only thought, and a chuckle the only sound he could manage as his vision turned funny to the sound of urgent voices and strong hands holding him steady.

 

*******

 

He woke to the Wardens sitting nearby, Nyla’s voice as soft as her gaze, which she directed at Alistair. They were unarmed and clean. Nyla’s hair, usually in a tight, elegant bun, hung loose and down her back in subtle waves. 

“Are you sure he’s not tainted?” 

“You would be able to sense it by now,” Alistair replied, meeting her soft gaze with one of his own. He lifted a hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “He’s not tainted, he’s just not well. Wynne said he’ll be fine.” 

Zevran closed his eyes, giving himself permission to find comfort in resting to the soft sounds of their banter. 

“Might she lie?” Nyla asked with seriousness. “Was she not placating my distress like a good healer is wont to do?” 

“If she was, it didn’t work. Your distress is showing,” Alistair told her with a soft chuckle. “She has no reason to lie to you. I think she might if he were someone closer to you, like a family member or something.” After a long bout of silence, he continued warily, “I’ve… said something wrong, haven’t I?” 

This made Zevran want to laugh, but the moment his body prepared to do as much, he decided against it. Something hurt, such as, upon examination, most things. 

“Not exactly,” she replied with a sigh. “Do you find me so foolish for caring?” 

“I think you’re trying to replace your family with everyone here, and most of us likely won’t survive. You’re setting yourself up for a lot more hurt… so… yes. Caring so much is probably foolish.” 

Nyla spoke with a pained voice, holding in something that reminded Zevran of what it felt to be refused healing for the first time when he was about ten-ish years old. “I… I’m not trying to do that, Alistair.” 

“Sorry, love,” Alistair replied softly, and Zevran resented him for hurting the Warden, even if he had been entirely correct. 

Zevran felt something for her, though. Something that had him want to soothe her hurts and offer her more… something. He was not such a fool to fail to realize he cared about her wellbeing. Attachment was dangerous even outside of blight times, and he wouldn’t miss her if she were to die or leave. He had lost far more than a master, rather, a friend, as Nyla in particular was turning out to be. 

“Alistair, I am inclined to remind you, we are living our lives. This blight is not a pause in my life, or an ending. It’s a chapter.” She continued with a soft, and loving voice, “Our first chapter of many.” 

Zevran was so interested in Alistair’s response to the Warden’s heavy-handed sentimentality he couldn’t help but open his eyes to check. 

A soft and sad smile graced Alistair’s lips, his eyes moistened, and he gave a nod, his eyes pointing toward the ground for a moment. “Of course, dear.” 

_Tells._

 


End file.
